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First Steps By Elizabeth Parris The war had been over for a few years when I was about to enter high school. My father never came home from the army but it wasn't because he was a dead hero. He was very much alive and no hero at all. He just found something better, divorced my mom and left us without so much as a word. Mother did pretty well by me until I hit puberty. Oh, sure you say; most teens have a rough time with all kinds of issues around who they are. Trust me when I say my coming of age wasn't exactly out of an Andy Hardy movie; anything but. I was small, almost scrawny and not very interested in boyish activities. Mother took good care of herself and of me especially in an era when working mothers were a rarity and divorce was something people whispered about behind a divorcee's back. Those self-righteous prigs managed to think divorce was always the fault of the woman even if she was abandoned. Maybe part of why I turned out like I did was to get even for what was done to Mother. Of course there was extended family but they were of no support; neither emotional nor financial. Mother's family had rejected her for her tasteless choice of husband. She later explained to me that they had pressured her to give up her bohemian lifestyle which was an embarrassment to them. It was her father who had introduced her to the man she married, the man who to all appearances was so staid, stable and proper and who nearly destroyed her. Grandfather blamed Mother for all that had happened and then isolated her from the family. Grandmother had her own resources and was able to supplement Mother's income by sending small amounts of money through an attorney. She openly defied her husband in so doing but dared only go so far. Mother had tried hard, too hard perhaps, to keep me from being like my father who was an overbearing, so very self-consciously masculine, pompous prig. I was fully cooperative when she encouraged me to play with dolls, to avoid rough play and to settle for jacks and jump rope. My hair was kept long, long enough to gather into bunches even after I was enrolled in kindergarten. Mother reluctantly followed the principal's suggestion that she have it cut. That I would never fight back for fear of losing Mother's approval only made me a target for all the bullies and for some of the boy drips who were so low on the schoolyard and playground pecking order they had only me to pick on. There was nothing left for me to do but to learn girls' games and to play with the girls. That was super seeing that I fit in better as a girl than as a boy. Mother helped me fit in by choosing clothing in soft pastel colors, low sneakers that passed as tennis shoes in that long gone era. It all felt so good, so natural; but still I was a boy. If someone were to look in my school notebooks they would be hard to convince that these belonged to a boy. I often dotted the letter "i" with tiny circles and by around sixth grade these circles were little hearts. By eighth grade sketches filled the margins, sketches of idealized girls with large eyes with hairstyles done in detail. I began to carry around a special private notebook in which I drew full page girls in ensembles of my own design, really variations of ads in the Sunday New York Times Magazine, ads that I studied with assiduity and envy. ///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// In rainy weather when outdoor play was impractical, Mother would drop me at her friend's house a block or so from the two family house where we lived. The friend had married well on more than one occasion and had become wealthier and more secure after each divorce. She now lived in a well maintained rambling Victorian house. Mother's friend, Helena by name, had a daughter named Rima, a pretty redhead two or three years older than I, who treated me as a living doll which means she dressed me as most girls might dress a doll! Rima's playroom was part of a small suite which included her bedroom. We played a dress-up version of house. She was Mommy and I was the little girl. It was a thrill to have her dress me in her outgrown clothing, style my still longish hair and sometimes even polish my nails. The game got even better when, over time, she allowed me to wear her panties under what I had already was thinking of as my dresses. The texture of the smooth nylon panties was enough to make my tiny penis rock hard, a phenomenon that I didn't understand but one which felt ever so good. Petticoats and slips were not far off; neither were Mary Janes which were supplanted in a few years by saddle shoes. I soon came to adore Rima and to look up to her as a role model. She was pretty, athletic, and so very self-possessed. She easily intimidated any girl or boy who even hinted at challenging her and she did so without having to lift a finger; a dismissive sneer or a cutting remark was all it took. If any boy or girl was foolhardy enough to standup to her she put her hands on her hips and dare them to "do something about it." Even bigger, older boys backed away rather than get into a shoving match with Rima. Even though we no longer had the bodies of children, Rima, still very much in control, continued our private "girl game." She had often taken off her dress in front of me to change what she was wearing or to offer me the opportunity to try on a dress or skirt that I looked at with more envy than usual. Even as she developed a teenager's shape, Rima continued to change clothing in front of me. I wasn't exactly unresponsive to seeing her in her panties especially the tailored nylon briefs that she wore on special days. They were opaque as befitted a young lady of the late forties and early fifties yet not so opaque to completely obscure the downy patch of pubic hair that seemed to spring up all at once. One day as I knelt to help her fasten the buckle of her new t-strap shoes, I noticed a few wisps of hair protruding from the leg bands of her panty. Try as I might to keep from crying, I couldn't stop the tears from running down my cheeks. Rima put her hand gently under my chin and guided me to my feet. "Oh, honey. I should have known that it would get to be too much for you if I kept on pretending you're my personal maid. I'm sorry. Maybe we're getting too grown up for this playacting. After all, you really are a boy, no matter how you feel." "No, no Rima! I don't ever want to stop what we're doing." "Then why are you so teary?" "You're getting, you know...Becoming..." "Oh, sweetie, I'm older than you and everyone knows girls ripen before boys." "But some of the boys already have hair where you do and on their legs and under their arms..." I broke off into sniffles. "Don't be a sap. Why would you want to be all fuzzy like a chimpanzee? Don't worry about it. You'll ripen when your body is ready. Let's hope you stay smooth." Helena saw to it that Rima had music lessons and, of course, dance lessons. I wasn't at all sure what the dance lessons were like as my mental images, derived from what I saw on television variety shows, flitted from classical ballets scenes to ballroom dancers where the lady partners wore dresses with flowing skirts that often fanned out to reveal their panties. "It isn't anything like that," was Rima's answer to my questions. "Say, why not come along and watch a class. Mummy will speak to Madame, it's her dance school, and then you can come and watch a class." Helena informed us that Madame would only allow little girls to watch the class. This left me close to tears. That prompted Rima to whisper something to Helena after which Helena nodded and they both smiled. "Shelly, love, this may come as a surprise to you but both your mother and I have known about the "girl games' you and Rima play. We've known about from the start. Since you're so comfortable playing the role of a girl, I see no reason why you couldn't go watch a few dance classes as a visitor." Mother and I were finishing the dinner dishes when Helena called regarding her scheme to get me into Rima's dance class as an observer. Mother was delighted that I would be willing to dress as a girl, let alone pass myself off as one, in any place other than Rima's bedroom suite. I was rewarded with a big hug and kiss from Mother even before I was told what was in store for me. "You see, darling, this can't be simply a matter of you slipping into Rima's old things. First of all, there will be no haircuts for at least a month so we'll be able to style your hair if we're lucky. Then we need to shop for a dress or skirt and blouse ensemble as well as a coat and shoes. Since you're so petite, we really should dress you younger than your real age." "But won't I look terribly gawky?" "You may feel that way at first so we'll have you practice at home and at Rima and Helen's house to build up your confidence. I have no doubt you'll be the perfect little lady." That evening was spent going through the Sears Roebuck catalogue. "Shelly, sweets, I know you'd much rather shop in person but until you're able to be comfortable around strangers as Sheila, you do need a girl's name that works with Shelly as a nickname, it might to embarrassing for us to shop in the girls' department." Mother was right as she so often was. It was not yet time for me to go out as a girl especially not in situations where I would be open to scrutiny. The Sear's catalogue and a visit to Rima's dance class might be a good start. Then again, it might be the beginning and end of my girl persona. It was difficult for me to think about anything but the much anticipated visit to Rima's dance class. My teachers caught me daydreaming in class even more than usual and my drawings became filled with girls whose eyes betrayed fright behind their bland smiles. Then Rima offered me a distraction in the form of a bicycle she no longer wanted. It was a heavy duty Columbia girl's model. (Girl's bicycles were popular in those far off more modest times when girls and women wore skirts much of the time. Rather than the crossbar which gives almost all bicycle fames today their triangle shape, girl's bicycles had no such crossbar which was left out in order to allow girls and women to mount, ride, and dismount modestly.) Unlike most boys, I had no qualms about riding a girl's bike; it suited me just fine. To most guys and a few girls in the neighborhood, riding a girl's bike further marked me a target for teasing at best and bullying. Some of the girls stood up for me and told the meaner boys they were jealous because they didn't have a swank bike like I had. It was pretty clear that some of the boys didn't like seeing me teased and getting pushed off my bike by the local junior greasers and loudmouths but they didn't dare to say a word in my defense presumably out of fear of being labeled a faggot lover. In some strange way I was getting a kick out of the attention I was getting. It got to the point that when I walked passed the corner hangout I made it my business to place one foot in front of the other as if walking an invisible tight rope deliberately provoking taunts. The eyes of some of the boys burned into my back but their leering stares were inspired, I sensed, by my being so girlishly attractive which aroused confusion and uncertainty buried deep within them. Then a wadded candy wrapper hit my back to the accompaniment of a chorus of laughter. I paused but didn't turn. The something hard was thrown but it missed me and clattered along the sidewalk. I froze for an instant. "Hey, you chumps, leave the kid alone." "What are you gonna do about it?" Then some yelps followed by a cry of pain. "That's for nothing, you jerk. Imagine what you'll get when you do something to piss me off real good." Then I turned to see Ray, a local bully rubbing his bruised face and being stared down by a boy of about sixteen. He was cute and definitely all guy. "Forget about those goons. They won't bother you no more, at least not today." The incident had left me pretty upset especially with that rock being thrown at me. It was beginning to dawn on me that my girlish ways could get me hurt. "Hey, kiddo; I know it's easy for me to say you shouldn't take it to heart on account of I never had to take...You get what I'm saying. I know you're shook up so if it'll make it easier for you, let me walk you home." I nodded and we started walking together. It seemed bizarre that I was saved from being tormented and maybe even jumped by this really nice boy. We hadn't gone more than a few yards when he put his arm across my body. "Hold up for a minute. You know that guy in the car over there?" "No, why should I?" "I think he was trying to snap a picture of you back there." It made no sense but the car pulled out its parking space and drove off "Best I walk you all the way home. That creep in the car can only be bad news." Paul chatted while we walked but I was too beside myself to hear anything he said. When we got to the side door of my house I asked him why he was being so nice to a little fruit like me. "Hey, come on, kid. You shouldn't be calling yourself names. You know you got to be what you got to be so forget all those loudmouths; bunch of drips is all they are. They bother you again, let me know and I'll straighten them out." "That's really so sweet of you." Realizing that I called an older boy 'sweet' made me blush right down to my toes. "I meant really nice. Thanks for helping me." "Sure thing. See you around." He smiled and walked off as soon I unlocked the door and stepped inside. I was left with an unsettling feeling. ////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// When Mother came home from work I told her of the incident and how gallant this boy Paul had been. She smiled warmly until the part about a man in a car trying to snap pictures of me. "Sheldon," she said as her affect and tone turned somber, "there are things I have to discuss with you, things that...well, may be upsetting." That she called me Sheldon so soon after suggesting I use the name Sheila added to my discomfiture over her sudden mood shift. Mother went on to describe how my father wanted nothing to with her or me from the time I was an infant. Of course I had known this ever since I could remember but what I didn't know was that he was trying to regain custody of me by proving Mother was an unfit parent, that she was to blame for my inability to function as a normal boy. I knew he didn't care about me in the least but was creating turmoil to hurt Mother. She took a deep breath and concluded "I have no doubt that the man in the car was a private detective hired to collect evidence that you are, dare I say it, a hopeless queer." Then she drew me into her arms and snuggled me as she rocked back and forth crying. I sat across her lap, my head on her shoulder, so close I could smell her hair. Her breath on my neck made me tingle in odd ways. Mother pushed me way and then spoke. "Shell, my little sweetie love, I'm afraid we have to change our plans for you to dress so you can visit Rima's dance class. Oh, I promise once we sort out what your father is up to we can try again." Despite my disappointment there was nothing to do but nod and give Mother a kiss. Except for going to school and getting a few things at the grocer's, I stayed very close to home for the next few weeks. Mother put a stop to me riding my bike over to Rima's in case the private investigator lay in wait to gather evidence. Reading, studying for my high school placement test and listening to records were not enough to use up all my energy. Even though I was a sissy by any standard, I always enjoyed playing schoolyard games albeit the games girls played. Mother reluctantly agreed to let me ride my bike to the schoolyard on condition that I cut through our backyard to the alleyway around the corner. It took only a few days for the girls to accept me back into the fold as long as it was limited to the schoolyard. Janet and I were the only early birds at the playground one Sunday morning. We were practicing a game called Kings or Chinese handball which was a simpler, less strenuous variation of handball played against a wall with each player defending a box drawn on the concrete in front of the wall. We were getting silly and began playing at increasing distances from the wall. "Say," Janet announced, "We might as well be playing real handball." "Sounds swell to me," I answered and we moved to the regulation handball court. To our mutual surprise, we turned out to be pretty good. Janet was full of praise for my speed, strength, and accuracy which amazed me at least as much as it did Janet. We soon dissolved into fits of giggles as Janet hatched a scheme for us to team up and beat the boys at handball. "It'll be so neat for us girls to show them up." "The problem with your idea," I pointed out, "is that I'm not a girl, not really." Janet hesitated a few seconds and then enthusiastically announced, "So much the better. It'll make them give you some respect when we beat them. Maybe then they'll stop bothering you." Our gleeful planning was interrupted by a man who got out of a car and approached us. He had an expensive looking camera which he carried in one hand. "Look at that freakin' pervert. Leave this to me." She waited for him to get near and as she was about to greet us Janet spoke up. "Say, mister, are you a magazine photographer looking to discover new talent. My girlfriend and me would love you to take our pictures." Then she glanced over her shoulder and winked at me. Janet's apparently friendly invitation made my heart pound. This had to be someone my father sent to get proof that Mother was feminizing me and all that baloney. Janet pulled me to my feet and struck a pose. As the man put his eye to the viewfinder Janet slammed the camera into his face! He bellowed and dropped the camera as Janet stomped his foot leaving him off balance. "Stamp on the camera, Shelly, stamp on it!" It was marvelous to see the thirteen year old Janet suddenly and effectively take on a grown man. As the camera broke under my foot Janet started to scream even as she shoved the man to the ground. The molester or whatever he was panicked, scrambled to his feet and fled with Janet close behind him. She paused at the playground gate long enough to watch him get into his car and drive off. "Got his license plate number; 9L7791. I bet my screams made the neighbors call the cops." She hugged me as our giggles swelled to laughter. It was upsetting when, a few minutes later, a police car pulled up. Our names and a description of the perpetrator were taken for a report. The cops offered to drive us home in a tone that broached no argument. Mother thanked them and the cops in turn reassured her that the license plate would be traced. We later learned that the plate number belonged to a car reported stolen two days before. It therefore seemed to me unlikely that my father was in any way connected to the incident. Mother nodded half-heartedly, a sign she had some doubts about my assessment. ////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// A few days later Rima explained to me that there were many men and even some women who were willing buyers of candid photos of ordinary young girls at play and in other situations. Especially sought after were photos in which a casual observer might be treated to a glimpse of panty. My facial expression must have been incredulous because Rim smiled, gave me a big hug and remarked "You really are a babe in the woods." There was no repeat of the incident or any like it for a very long time. ////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// It was more than coincidence that Rima began tutoring me in how to sit like a lady, how to get in out of car clad in a skirt or dress while maintaining modesty. She was so effective a teacher that I began to incorporate these lady-like graces into my every move whether I was dressed as a girl or not. As time progressed makeup was added to our dressing games. Experimenting on my own, discovered that lipstick applied and then blotted off gave an acceptable grownup appearance without being too, too bizarre for a girl my age. In a few years Rima and I were spending more than just rainy days developing a passably femme appearance for me. All that ended when Rima went off to boarding school but not before we clandestinely, so we thought, moved some of her clothing and underthings to my house. I was in a blue funk as the fall rains set in and there was no Rima to tutor me in the intricacies of female attire and all that goes with it. The view from my bedroom window did nothing to relieve my mood which was just as well because those moods allowed me to indulge myself in memories of what was between Rima and me while dreaming of what yet might be. I lay on my bed listening to classical music, something I had just discovered appealed to me. A blindingly white nylon panty and cami set, long outgrown by Rima, lay on my tummy. There was, I knew, much about the intricacies of so-called intimate apparel than I had learned from Rima. The displays on backyard clothes lines augmented the little I had learned from seeing Mother's things folded on her dresser. It was time for me to learn more. After donning a pair of tight jeans and a pastel green tee, I put on my raincoat and a wide brimmed rain-hat meant for a boy but could just as easily have belonged to a girl and headed for the nearby soda fountain which had a great selection of magazines. The shop was almost empty except for a few older men who liked to hang around at the back tables or in a back booth. I scanned the magazine rack puzzling over which to buy. After selecting Mademoiselle, Seventeen and Young Miss, I took a deep breath and walked up to the register. The clerk, a girl in her early twenties and somehow related to the owner smiled in a pleasant and matter-of -fact manner, and started to put the magazines in a paper bag. "Trust me, kiddo," she said conspiratorially, "it's a good idea to keep your choices of reading to yourself." She seemed to have read my mind and that made me blush. "Honey, there's no need to blush even though it adds to your appeal. Just be careful, that's all. Say, how about a hot chocolate on me?" My curiosity piqued, I nodded and sat on a stool. Robbie, short for Roberta, was really neat. She worked the early morning shift part time at the soda fountain while going to college at night. On weekends she worked as a hostess and sometimes barmaid in a small restaurant in Brooklyn Heights, an area I had never heard of. It was somehow clear that she had a degree of empathy for boys like me. Maybe that was wishful thinking on my part. I came with the notion that there places beyond my neighborhood, which so far had been my whole world, that might have room for people who didn't quite fit in the everyday cubbyholes of the narrow world in which I was trapped. Soon after this brief but enlightening conversation, Robbie left this part time job for full time work as a restaurant hostess and dining room manager which would allow her to pursue her college courses on a full time day student basis. It all sounded impressive to a very confused boy who was soon to graduate from eighth grade into high school. We would, I was certain, never meet again. I walked home through the rain with a new air of confidence at having walked into a store, calmly (maybe not calmly at the time) selected a few girls' fashion magazines and left but not after having been treated to a hot chocolate by the clerk. If I could do that, I could learn to be comfortable doing a whole lot of shopping for girl stuff. It wasn't easy to bypass the five and ten with its easy access to undies and other such feminine things but there were higher priorities at the moment. Once I was back in my room, I stripped down to my briefs, those horribly coarse boy underpants, and lay on the bed fixated on studying ads for bras, panties, garter belts, hosiery, and the panty girdles that were such an ever-present part of teen girls' wardrobes back then. My fingers drifted to my inner thighs, caressed my smooth and surprisingly sensitive skin and then froze in revulsion on touching those ridiculous boy briefs. Feeling teary at thinking I was destined to be trapped in those dreadful undies forever, my focus and my fantasies were once again on the ever so wonderful items in the ads. Then my hand lit on Rima's old panties! I grasped the sleek panties in my hand got up from the bed and went into Mother's room, dropped the panties on a chair, stood in front other full length mirror and, half turning away, slid out of my boy briefs to slowly expose my tush. My dick was hardening as I stepped into the panties and guided them over my thighs. It was not easy to conceal my boy parts as I expected it might be. Being hard made it even more of a challenge. Once my hard-on began to subside I smiled at my reflection which was all the more seductive for having a very different set of curves in my panties, so very different from the girls in the ads. Returning to my room, I knelt on the floor as I once again studied the full page magazine ads as my panty covered cock pressed against the mattress. I started to rock against the bed. A gasp escaped my lips as a sudden throbbing started in my hard-on as I felt spasm after spasm pump gobs of sticky glop into my panties. It was overwhelming, so unlike anything I could have ever imagined. My first orgasm, satisfying though it was, left me hungering for more; not only more of what I had just experienced but more variations in the company of others. Still shaking nervously, I practically fled to the bathroom where I turned on the shower and studied myself in the bathroom mirror before taking off my panties. I could really be so cute and... Ugh! That spot just ruins everything, so ugly. I filled the sink with lukewarm water and dropped the panties in to soak before stepping into the shower. It was surprising that my dick remained super sensitive from the unplanned jerk-off session. Knowing that Mother might be home soon motivated me to resist the urge to jerk-off again, this time deliberately. It didn't prevent me from engaging in some very enlightening manual exploration. I dried off hurriedly and, thinking it was feminine, wrapped the towel sarong style around my chest to conceal my non-existent breasts. Then I narcissistically brushed my hair experimenting with as nearly femme hairdos as I could manage. Not bad at all, I reflected to myself. Say, it might be a good thing my voice hasn't changed yet. Make it easier for me to be a girl. A dab of Mother's lipstick... Then, as my eyes watered, I thought Oh, wake up, you little faggot! Sure, you might learn to fake being a girl. Trouble is when and where and who for? A dejected smile at myself and then I rinsed the panties I had involuntarily stained, refilled the sink to soak them once again, just to be sure. Mother came home a short time later and went to the bathroom to freshen up. A sudden panic came over me. Had I left the panties in the sink? Mother returned a few minutes later with a knowing smile on her face. She then kissed me tenderly on the cheek. It was a relief that she hadn't mentioned the panties. Odd, but I couldn't remember hanging them to dry in the bathroom or elsewhere. "Shelly, love, it's so delightful to know that you keep your room and all your belongings so neat; not at all like what the women work tell me their sons are like. And you never, almost never that is, leave things lying around." Was that Mother's way of letting me know she found the panties but didn't mind very much? She hadn't mentioned anything one way or the other since she cancelled plans for me to visit Rima's dance class dressed as a girl. That seemed ever so long ago. Had Mother simply put plans to help me be a girl on hold or was it her idea to totally abandon my dressing fantasies as inappropriate as I entered my teens? A few days later Mother left a pile of folded clean laundry on my dresser. On top was the panty, clean and neatly folded. Mother knew and had voiced no objections. I felt I had to talk to her about this before I started high school at the end of the summer. It would take some courage to bring it up and courage was a commodity I lacked. ////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// I decided to continue my experiments with hair and makeup whenever I was sure I would be alone for a suitable length of time. It was obvious I could get away with using Mother's lipstick, eyebrow pencil, mascara and such for a very limited time without her discovering. There was no other way around that problem but somehow getting my own stock of cosmetics. But how was a problem that took a lot of my energy especially in the moments before sleep. A few days later I got a package from Rima who was away at boarding school. In it was a beret with her school emblem on it. That was super! It was a bit of girl's clothing that I could wear whenever I wanted to and not call too much attention to myself. Lots of boys and men wore berets; maybe not lots but some did, especially men and boys interested in be-bop jazz. I just have to listen to be-bop. Try as I might, there was no chance of tucking my tapered neck boy's haircut under the back of the beret to give the effect of long hair tucked under a hat the way some girls effected that casual and arty look. Frustration to be sure but not enough to deter me from wearing the beret at every opportunity I could find. My first foray into wearing the beret was early on an unseasonably cool Sunday morning. I went out to get the Sunday papers while Mother and most of the neighborhood kids were still asleep. Ray, the bully that Paul had protected me from, was already hanging around the newsstand with one of his pals. He nodded at me in a way that wasn't aggressive but still made me uncomfortable. Not wanting to antagonize him, I smiled but it came more like a scowl. "Okay, be that way, you snobby little faggot bitch," snarled Ray as he stepped in front of me. At that instant something came over, something I had never experienced before and that was the determination to stand my ground. I stepped forward bumping Ray just slightly off balance but enough for me to pass without stepping around him. His pal laughed for a brief instant until he was told in no uncertain terms to shut up. I was scared as I came away from the newsstand carrying the Sunday Daily News. The hairs on the back of my neck bristled with tension as I nonchalantly walked by Ray. "Hey, nice hat...for a girl," he called as he snatched my beret from my head. In a fury, I dropped the newspaper and rushed at him. My fingers found his face as I raked my nails over his eyes. The advantage was mine and I dared not relinquish it for a second. With all my weight behind it, my foot landed on his instep again throwing him off balance. A solid kick to his opposite knee left him at least temporarily unable to dodge me as I grabbed his greasy hair and yanked forward. As he attempted to pull back, my shove and his own backward momentum dropped him flat on his back as his head hit the concrete leaving him totally bewildered. A few kicks to his ribs left him lying on his side clutching his sore ribs and crying like a baby. That I was beating up a larger, older boy was a heady experience! "I give, I give. I've had enough...please." As I gathered up the newspaper and my beret, I couldn't help but notice that Ray was hard. "Hey everybody, look at that revolting goon laying there. He has a hard-on. Ray likes getting the crap beaten out of him by Shelly." Janet, who just arrived on the scene, was making sure to add to Ray's humiliation. A couple of days later I noticed that Mother had put a pile of my folded laundry on my dresser; not an unusual occurrence in the least except for one thing. I scowled on seeing the repulsive boy briefs on top of assorted colored tee shirts, socks and whatnot when a shimmering fold caught my attention. My fingertips lightly rested on and then closed over the nylon panties. They seemed identical to the pair Rima had handed down to me. Thumb and forefinger of each hand held the panty by the waist band. They were identical to the pair in my drawer; Van Raalte brand - junior miss line, unadorned but for the tiny picot loops along the leg bands. The double nylon crotch somehow added to the anticipated thrill of wearing this innocent set of undies. I hurriedly opened my underwear drawer to discover the panties that were once Rima's were still where I had put them. The one difference became obvious. The second pair, a tiny bit larger than the first, was exactly my size. There could be no doubt that Mother had bought me this new panty which would fit so much more comfortably and look better too. What was the message? The timidity and uncertainty I had about my penchant for femme attire kept from talking to Mother. Considering that Mother was petite, perhaps these were her new panties that somehow got misplaced in my laundry. No, I immediately rejected that theory. Mother, even though she's so small, still couldn't possibly be comfortable in these tiny panties. Say, I bet she's trying to tell me something. But if she's not and I say something, she may be awfully angry and tell me it's about time I quit this stupid sissy stuff get some interests like other boys my age. Better to just keep my mouth shut for now. So I put the brand new panty in my drawer next to the hand-me-down from Rima. Of course my fingers caressed the soft nylon and every time I needed to take or return something to that corner what I was now thinking of as my undies drawer. Really, undies sound so much better than underwear, don't you think? It was a few days later when another pile of clean laundry appeared on my dresser. That made twice in a row that Mother hadn't asked me to fold laundry or even to sort and start a load in the washer. At first glance it was only my boring old things sitting there in three piles: white, bright colors, dark colors. Make no mistake, all my underthings were in the white pile. (Boys' and men's underwear, except for boxer shorts, were unavailable in any color but white.) Then it was suddenly there; the narrow strap poking out of the pile of whites. Fingering it tentatively, I noticed the tiny adjustment thing. Only then did I lift it out from the pile. It was a cotton brassiere, one in a very small cup size but a bra nonetheless. The small cup size meant it was meant for me and not for Mother! I avoided eye contact with Mother as I set the table for our dinner. My face had to have turned beet red as I felt myself flush when she smiled at me as we sat down. An uncomfortable silence hung over the dinner table when my only responses to Mother's efforts to chat were little more than grunts. To further avoid talking about the feminine intimates that Mother was buying for me, I suggested Mother sit in the living room and read or do a crossword while I did the dishes on my own. "Have you done your homework?" she called from the living room as I drained the sink signaling the dishes were done. "Yes, Mother. And I studied too." "That's my Shelly," she said in the upbeat tone she always used when she was particularly proud or encouraging. "Now, come in here, please. We need to talk." As I entered the living room, she added, "A nice warm mother daughter chat." Did I hear her right? Did she really say "daughter" or is it wishful thinking? Better just pretend nothing's out of the ordinary. Say, maybe this has something to do with the panties and bra that turned up in my laundry! Oh, I hope so." I sat down on the hassock in front of Mother's chair. She raised her feet to allow me room to sit and then rested them on my lap. Without thinking I massaged her stockinged arches. "That's so relaxing, Shelly. You used to do that to me when you were little but then I avoided allowing you to because I thought...Doesn't matter what I thought." She sighed and, closing her eyes, rested her head against the back of the chair. Her legs, now crossed at the ankles no longer rested on my lap but were on the hassock alongside me. "I heard about your little explosion on Sunday morning. You've had enough, isn't that it? Well, good for you. But you're not always going to have the element of surprise in your favor so you need to control your temper. Fight back but don't let your feelings stop you from thinking. But that's not what we need to talk about right now. "You've always been a different kind of child and to this day I value your uniqueness. No, unique isn't the right word. Different; that's a better word for what makes you so special. It hurts to see how hard it is for you to fit in and what you have to put up with around here." "Mother, that's all well and good but why are you making such a big deal out of what I've always been? There's nothing you or anyone else can do to change things from short of asking me to pretend I'm just like other boys. And I don't get what would be better any place else so why not bother staying around here?" I was more than simply annoyed at Mother setting a scene to rehash what was going on ever since I could remember. Her reaction to my little tantrum was stern. "Now just be patient and you'll understand." I nodded submissively but Mother went on. "And don't you be fresh. You're not too big to be taken over my knees and getting a spanking." An indescribable shiver ran over me, not in the least unpleasant. From then on I only half heard what Mother was saying. The thought of having my pants pulled down and made to lie across Mother's lap while she slapped my tush was too, too distracting. It might be even more enticing if I could be allowed to wear my new panties. The feel of Mother's nyloned thighs through the gossamer panties would be heavenly. Awareness of what Mother was telling me returned although my thoughts flashed back to Mother's threat of a spanking. Was it a threat or a promise? "I hope you agree that our move will open a whole new way of discovering who you really need to be." I vaguely remembered Mother saying something about a new job and a move to a new place. But where was that destination? "We're going to so some basic shopping for you next Monday. You're to dress in the panty I left on your dresser but no brassiere just yet; Simply an under-vest that I'll have out for you as well as your cream colored Bermuda shorts, knee socks and penny loafers. I'll pick up some vee neck tees for you. And oh, yes, you can wear that beret that seems to make you so self-confident." "Mother, why can't I choose at least some of what I get to wear?" "First of all, you're just starting high school and haven't any sense of color or style. Maybe I am being a little harsh, Shelly. You do show some sense of taste...for a boy. If you can get up the gumption to buy yourself some panties, you can wear them under your Bermudas. But remember, whites or pastels, no darks, and, now that I think of it, cotton and nothing else." "But why only cotton?" A knowing smile as Mother rose to her feet and spoke. "You'll learn why when you get ready for our shopping day together. It will be the first lesson of a condensed course in why and how girls think about their undergarments." "Mother..." I didn't get a chance to go into a full snit because Mother reached down, caught my wrist and slapped me hard on my tush. I tried to yank my wrist from her grasp but she was surprisingly strong. "Now just remember what I warned you about. I'm still in charge, little boy." Being called 'little boy' by Mother stung hard enough to make my eyes well up with tears. "Little girl' would have been so much more palatable and so much more in keeping with how I felt at that moment; like a girl about to be allowed to dress as a grownup. Maybe not as a grownup but more like a teenager, maybe even in a couple of years to pretend being a coed. The next morning was showery so no one was likely to be hanging around the streets and playgrounds. This was definitely a good time to take up Mother's challenge to buy my own panties. Since I was familiar to the sales women at our local five and ten, I biked over to one where I was unlikely to recognition and the embarrassing awkwardness that would surely accompany this first venture into shopping for my own intimates. Since I was going to shop for girl's undies this would be a chance to test out a girlish look. Jeans, a plain blue tee, crew socks and sneakers were my choices. It wasn't easy to overcome the urge to wear panties but that might be looking for trouble. I folded the legs of the jeans into six inch cuffs that exposed enough of my ankle, a fad few boys dared to follow. Slipping on the tee and checking the mirror gave me pause. Wow! Even these silly boy briefs aren't too, too bad. Might even be mistaken for panties in dim light. Something's not right with this tee. No lines under it. Yeah, even a girl my age who hasn't quite blossomed yet would wear something underneath to cover what little she has. Guess I need an undershirt at least. Desperately looking for a girl's under-vest, I dug through the few things left after Mother got rid of much of what Rima had handed down to me. "You don't need to keep these things. You're growing up. I'll explain some other time." I had resented Mother saying, as she so often did, she would explain some other time. What Mother had said about next Monday's shopping trip might mean the time for explanations could be very near. To my dismay, the sun had come out which made me rethink my plan. Why not go? No one will know you all the way over on Church Avenue. Besides, if I don't do this Mother might think I don't really care enough about being a girl. The outline of the under-vest showed through the tee! My beret completed the look, almost. A pair of clip on earrings borrowed from Mother's costume jewelry completed the cute tom-boy look. The five and ten was just opening as I chained the bike to a lamppost. Drifting around aimlessly around the store, I paused at the candy counter to buy a small bag of chocolate babies. "Thank you, miss," said the counter lady not realizing how much she boosted my confidence. I made my way to the ladies' section and chose a three pack of white and a six pack of assorted bights and pastels. Success! The first thing on getting back home was to model my new undies which gave me a very intense hard-on. Resisting the need to jerk off at my own reflection, I rinsed the panties in the bathroom sink; whites, brights and pastels each separately. They were then hung in a very ostentatious manner on the drying rack in the corner of the kitchen. Now let's see if Mother would imply I haven't the gumption to shop for my own girl wear! ////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// Mother asked me to stay in and not wander the neighborhood with Janet who had become both my friend and my inspiration when it came to sticking up for myself against the jerks who teased me. "We don't want you to get a worse reputation than you already have especially after you beat up that bigger boy," was Mother's admonition. "That is so unfair, Mother. You always told me not to be scared of bullies." "That doesn't mean act like a wild woman." We watched the Ed Sullivan Show during which Mother made sure to remind me how "adorable" some of the guest stars while pointing out details of their ensembles. When the show ended, Mother told me she would do my hair. To add to my confusion, she asked me to shower and get into what had been laid out on my bed. Why I couldn't just wash my hair in the shower was a mystery. After showering I discovered that my garb for having my hair done would consist of nothing more than a very lovely, very grownup blue nylon panty brief with lace appliqu? at the hip. It was as sensuously seductive as it was virginal! Next to the panty lay an off white, knee length velour robe. It hardly seemed a thing to wear when getting one's hair shampooed, but mine wasn't to reason why. My hands shook as I felt the sleek almost sinful feeling of the gossamer nylon move slowly over my thighs. My cock twitched as I tucked it into place. Looking over my shoulder at my tush, I hooked my thumbs in the leg bands and snapped them into place in a classically femme gesture that I realized needed practice. Slipping on the robe gave me more opportunity to perfect my feminine graces. I hesitated, wondering if to add more to my already girlish ways would make me more caricature than coed. Without thought I had moved the robe along my arms to the elbows as I puzzled over the reflection of the pretty creature looking back at me. Neither she nor he, that sexless image had possibilities of being either or both! As a prelude to completing donning the robe, my hand went to the back of my neck, paused and then moved up an inch or two in a perfect image of a girl lifting her hair to allow it to flow free of a garment. This was more than a clue as to what path was the more natural for me to follow. Then my smile disappeared. The femme path was ever so tempting but the toll society would exact to follow that enticing path might be more than I could bear. A tap at my door and I pulled the robe tight across my front right up to my chin. "Coming, Mother." As we entered the bathroom, Mother stood in front of me, opened my robe commenting, "Such modesty" and made clucking sounds with her tongue. I turned my head to the side in embarrassment as she slowly opened the robe and eased it off my shoulders. "Such a lovely young thing as you must learn to reveal one's charms slowly, teasingly...It will give you power, power over you admirers." Mother studied me from head to toe and then I knew her gaze had fixed on my hips and genitals enhanced by the bit of gauzy panties. Her gaze made me feel vulnerable but only for an instant. I dared to make eye contact with her which made her turn away. It was my first taste of the power Mother had spoken of a minute earlier. Her hand was on the small of my back as she turned me toward the sink to which had been affixed a short hose with a spray at the end. As Mother's free hand reached for a nearby stool and moved to the sink, her hand slipped from the small of my back lightly brushing my tush. A quiver welled up in me creating both arousal and guilt at responding sensually to what might have been an innocently affectionate gesture from Mother. Clad only in panties, I sat on the stool as Mother tilted my head over the sink. A slow stream of pleasantly warm water cascaded from the spray onto my hair. Then a cool feeling as shampoo flowed through my hair and onto my scalp. An unexpected tingle sensuality as Mother massaged the shampoo into my hair. After my hair had been shampooed and rinsed twice I started to sit up only to have Mother, her hand on the nape of my neck, push me back under the spry. This time it was to introduce me to conditioner. It was something I had surreptitiously glanced at on the shelves of stores carrying the feminine products I yearend to try. Mother responded to my awkward questions in a soothing voice. The conditioner was the final step before covering my hair with a towel and guiding me in creating a turban. The face creature in the mirror had my face but somehow a changed face. No, it only seemed to have changed. My hair was completely covered by the turban which might well have been concealing the tresses of girl. The illusion, it was only an illusion, of a young girl was further enhanced by my smooth skin, my soft upper torso so free of hair that it would never even hint that it was a the body of a male in early adolescence. Granted, as I raised my hands to the towel-turban, dark down was visible in my underarms but girls had hair there although girls and women were now shaving that place more often than not. The disappointment I felt as my eyes rested my chest's reflection was obvious enough to Mother who rested her hand gently on my shoulder. "Darling," was all she said but her tone changed that one word into an open ended questions. "Oh, Mother," I moaned. "Let's stop this farce right now. I'll never be convincing as a girl. Look at me. Even most girls a lot younger than me have something like breasts starting to grow and don't tell me otherwise. I can see what they've got under their shirts and sweaters even if they have an undershirt underneath "I'm just a skinny and very hopeless fairy." It was all I could do to keep from bursting into tears at the frustration of my dream to pass myself off as a girl. "Look at me and listen!" Mother followed that harsh order with a sharp slap across my face. "Don't ever call yourself nasty names; don't ever think that you deserve to be scorned by those cretins, do you hear me?" I nodded feeling Mother's warm breath on my neck as she leaned close to me. Again her hand rested lightly on my shoulder, her face close to mine so that I could see both our faces in the mirror. Her eyes welled with tears while mine began to clear to reveal an inner smile. She put her cheek to mine, turned her head so that her lips were terribly close to the edge of mine as her hand barely touched the skin of my chest as it came to rest on my nipple. A cold tingle moved from my cheek to my chest as my nipples became erect and in so doing took on an uncanny resemblance to those of a girl! "Never despair, darling," said Mother as she moved away from me. "Now get dressed and then we'll comb your hair." "Yes, Mother." The flatness of my own voice startled me. I started to slip into my robe but only succeeded in pulling it up as far the lower edge of my shoulder blades. Then, drawing it ever so tightly around me that it pressed my panties against my tush, I minced toward the door. The strangeness I had heard in my voice a moment ago was part of dark, pervasive mood that had descended from nowhere. Freezing in mid-step in the doorway, the source of my malaise was suddenly clear. There were two causes to this strange feeling. The lesser was that the elation I felt on seeing my nipples erect foreshadowing a more femme body had lessened by the thought that Mother and I might have actually started petting. That might lead to extremely disgusting and unnatural things happening between us. Mother's voice jarred me as she ended my somber guilt driven mood. "Sweetie, don't think for a second anything bad might be happening. Now get into bed and read. Listen to music as you fall asleep. I left some new nightclothes on your bed, night clothes that are comfy and relaxing." Whatever can she possibly mean by 'comfy and relaxing'? Pajamas are pajamas. Oh sure, they come in silk and all that stuff but that's not for boys, not even for girls until they're older. And who cares about pretty colors... My near snit ended when I saw what looked like a blue cotton nightie spread out on my bed! On it was a matching panty. Doffing my robe as I closed my bedroom door, I picked up the nightie and held it in front of me. The mirror told me it was a perfect but loose fit, something like an oversized tee long enough to brush the tops of my knees. Once I changed into the matching panty and slid the nightie over my head I postured in front of the mirror, thrilled at how easily I assumed the guise of girl my age, a girl on the verge of young womanhood. Then a scowl as it occurred to me that even in the larger highs school I would enter in a couple of weeks, I would still have to be Sheldon. For now, at least, I could get into bed in the kind of nightie any decently brought up teenage girl might wear, look at fashion magazines and dream. And that's what I did. ////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// Toward morning, I was repeatedly awakened by dreams, dreams that were so pleasant that I had no trouble going right back to sleep in hopes of picking up where each cream had ended. It seemed to have worked although when it was time too get up I had no recall of any details. My recollection was of having long hair, at least long enough to be unequivocally a hair length appropriate to girls. That was only the beginning of my luscious recollections. In my dream life there was the pleasant sensation of petticoats and skirts brushing against the back of my knees, the coolness of a breeze on my thighs I reached down to keep my skirt in place. The pressure of a garter belt or girdle at my waist combined with the tug of stockings held flawlessly smooth over my shapely legs. With a self-satisfied smile on my face, I threw off the covers and swung my legs over the side of the bed. My nightie had raised almost to the top my thighs which served to remind me that for the first time ever, I spent the night in femme nightwear. Then some of Rima's lessons on proper ladylike posture took control as I brought my thighs and knees together. A few giggles as I wondered why I did that with no possibility of anyone seeing my panties. Then it was off to the bathroom. I lifted the toilet seat as prelude to peeing, but no, that's not how girls do it. After lowering the seat, raising my nightie to my waist and lowering my panties to my ankles, it was time to sit and pee. Making sure that the stream hit the water to get the right sound, I began to wonder of girls let their panties all so low when they used the toilet. Rima was the only person I felt I could ask and she was too far away. Somehow knowing that this is what girls did, I dabbed at my pee slit with toilet paper and then pulled up my panties. How did girls do this? Goodness, I had so much to learn. Then that gloomy feeling came over me again. I was ready to tear off my femme nightclothes and ruin whatever effect remained of the shampoo and conditioner Mother had used on my hair. This is so stupid. Even if I get good at all this girl stuff, so what? It can't ever last and even if it does where will I belong? In a freak show, maybe... Without realizing it I had moved in front of the bathroom mirror and caught sight of my own sour face. Despite the agitation that was so plain, it was the face and hair of pretty girl. Slowly, my smile returned as did some of my confidence. I pulled the nightie over my head and studied my panty clad body. I was slender but no longer scrawny. My tummy was a little too round although I later came to realize that some guys and even girls thought that was cute and sexy. Maybe if I start doing sit-ups I can get a flat tummy. Pushups too so I don't get those horribly flabby upper arms like some girls and old women. Dance classes, that's it! I have to start nagging Mother. Mother was waiting for me at the door of my bedroom with some clothing on a hanger and a few accessories in her hand. "I didn't want to barge into your room when you weren't there. It's about time you had the privacy a young lady... a young person deserves." It was more than I could manage to keep from grinning. Mother had referred to me as a young lady and then blushed as she corrected herself. This was too, too rich. I was certain that I would be allowed to spend at least some of my waking hours as a girl but how many and for how long remained a mystery. Mother's voice brought me back to the moment and the plans for the day, plans to which I was still not privy although I suspected and hoped they would have something to do with my aspirations. Mother followed me into my room and hung the clothing over the closet door. "Oh, don't be so modest. I know perfectly well what you have. You'll need me to help you dress." Her tone, though not unpleasant, brooked no refusal. I turned my back to Mother as I disrobed. I caught her smiling nod of approval in the mirror as she fixed her eyes on the small of my back, my ankles, and on my tush. To my surprise, I felt no sense of shame standing nude with my back to Mother. After opening my drawer and taking out the new pair of nylon panties Mother reminded me that I had been given a limited choice among certain cotton panties. "Don't fret, darling. You'll understand when you see how effective these can be." After I stepped into the panties and adjusted them in a futile attempt to conceal every hint of my biologic nature that might show, Mother reassured there was no reason to despair. "You'll learn to create a flawless torso soon enough." Turning my back to the mirror so that I could study my tush, she smoothed the back of my panties to emphasize the semicircular seam of the crotch. It was a line that fascinated me when I saw it through girls' slacks or shorts and I just knew that regular boys couldn't get enough of that line. The undershirt Mother had gotten for me was so different from what I had expected. It was smooth polished cotton, blindingly white and had a tiny blue flower sewn to the neckline. No one would see it but it would remind me that underneath everything I was dressed as a girl and out in public! My shirt or blouse was a blue pull on affair that plunged lower at the neck than anything most boys would wear. The collar was soft and could be worn turned up in back. The lack of buttons meant that no curious onlooker could begin to guess whether this was meant for a girl or a boy. It was obvious it was not to be tucked into one's slacks. Next the slacks; cream colored and tailored to fit. Mother, after noticing my astonishment at the ladylike yet seductive fit that so enhanced my curves, explained that she had taken one of my favorite Jamaica shorts to a tailor/dressmaker who used it to make a perfect pattern. Leaning ever so slightly forward and glancing over my shoulder to evaluate the effect on my derriere, my face lit up as I discovered how to make the outline of my panties show at will. "Darling, you have the combined instincts of a lady and a coquette. I'm so proud of you are and what you will be." I frowned inside while maintaining glowing smile. Say, Mother, I going decide what I'm going to be like; not you and not anyone else. After stepping into my penny loafers, Mother handed me a narrow bracelet watch and a tiny birthstone ring. My hair was combed and sprayed and we were ready to go. I was thrilled to be going downtown dressed as I was although I wondered how I would carry anything in my pockets without spoiling the fit of my new slacks. A clutch purse that matched the leather of my loafers solved that minor problem. Mother pulled the car out of the garage and we drove not downtown but through the park to a neighborhood I didn't know existed. Nothing was said between Mother and me as the car made its way through narrow tree lined streets. There was no chance that I would let Mother know how fascinated I was with this previously unknown part of town, especially since my new concern over whether or not Mother was claiming the right to make some very personal decisions for me. ////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// Mother surprised me by pulling into a gated driveway between two buildings. There were parking spaces along both sides of this driveway. Expensive cars, among them the first Jaguar touring car I had ever seen, filled most of those spaces. We pulled into a space reserved for the clients of a law firm. As naive as I was, it signaled to me that we had business with that law firm. It intimidated me. On our entering through the back entrance, the young woman near the door ceased typing and greeted us by name; to be precise she greeted Mother by name and greeted me as Shellie. Despite her seeming familiarity, so out of place in the dark wood and leather atmosphere of this old guard, lace curtain Irish law firm, I was drawn to her. Her copper colored hair and freckled complexion fit in with the names on the door. After announcing us via a desktop intercom, the typist led us into the main reception area where we were handed over to a fiftyish woman who introduced herself as Miss Keenan, Mr. Shea's private secretary who was attractive in a handsome, no nonsense style. "Mr. Shea will speak with Mother before ...before we start. I'll ask Deirdre to take you to the conference room and keep you company. She'll be our stenographer once we start." The she turned to the young woman who appeared to be in charge of clerical staff and ordered, "See that Pam relieves Deirdre at once." Mother went off with Miss Keenan while Deirdre took charge of me. It was relief that Deirdre was the copper haired typist who first welcomed us. "Why did you call me Shellie when we walked in?" I asked her as soon as we were in the hall. "Because that's what I was told to call you and," her voice dropping to a whisper, "you're on file as SHELDON (SHELLIE) KOLCHINSKY. Now keep your voice down and don't ask questions, at least not until later." Her serious demeanor softened as she winked at me. A few moments later we were in a small conference room that looked to me like something out of the movies. Deirdre closed the door behind us. "It will be at least an hour before they even start introductions so we can relax and get friendly. Dollars to donuts that we find we have some things in common. And I just know we'll get on famously." You stuck-up patronizing snob! You with your gorgeous hair and smooth fair complexion and me looking like the blue collar twerp that I am, can't possibly have anything in common except the air we breathe... I would have continued silently vituperating except that Deirdre produced a cigarette case and asked "Cigarette?" I felt so grownup at being offered a cigarette by this worldly young woman and wanted to take her up on her offer but I was afraid of looking foolish considering I had never even held a cigarette. Maybe, just maybe that was her goal; to make me look like a juvenile in front of her. Deirdre's every movement was at once studied, relaxed, and natural. Her graceful hands were not in the least inhibited by the rings she wore on her index and middle fingers. The antique look gold cuff bracelet on her wrist drew my attention because it was so out of keeping with her conservative dress and shoes yet it was a nearly perfect complement and accent piece to her subdued yet eye-catching ensemble. She tamped the cigarette against the case, brought it to her lips and lighted it using a small enameled lighter. Deirdre, inhaling deeply and holding the smoke in her lungs, took no notice of me even though I looked at her calmly at first and then with envy as I inwardly acknowledged her quiet and elegantly attractiveness. She made eye contact with me and whether or not intentionally on her part, a glow behind her eyes made me feel terribly inferior knowing that I could never achieve the effect so natural in this imperious young beauty. A smile, disdainful perhaps, as she took the cigarette from her lips and seemed to contemplate as from her pursed lips, smoke rings rose toward the ceiling. On her feet now, Deirdre shook her skirt revealing a little more knee than was usually displayed in that gentler era. Had she done this to draw my attention to her? I couldn't see any rational motivation for this other than that she might be amusing herself at my embarrassment. "Coffee?" was all she said as she opened a door leading to a tiny pantry. I shook my head. Deirdre poured some coffee for herself and then tasted it. "Just right! You don't know what you're missing." "I may not know what I'm missing but I do know my likes and dislik