How It All Started - Part II - Lisa free porn video

PART II - Lisa And so, from an isolated and random event, a chain of events started that was to lead me into my present life. I do not intend, in this narrative, to explain in detail how my wardrobe grew, and how I came to spend progressively more time dressed up. My mother neither encouraged nor discouraged me from my new hobby, and adopted a carefully studied air of detachment. But despite her attempts to conceal her feelings I could tell that she was sympathetic - indeed ridiculously enthusiastic - about my new-found alter ego, and my collection of dresses, skirts, tops, and blouses, of shoes and accessories, jewellery and (later) make- up increased organically and progressively. With time, of course, the style of my clothes evolved, both as fashions changed, and as I grew up and developed from a shy, little girl to an increasingly confident teenager. Although this progression was not smooth - as you will see - it was sustained. I did not at first even contemplate dressing in public. I possessed in full the adolescent horror of being different that afflicts all boys, and accompanying the thrill of dressing up was the terror of discovery. I pressed my mother repeatedly to promise not to tell anybody about my excursions into the world of femininity (although I did not, of course, at the time put it quite like that), or to betray my inclinations to others by the merest hint. My mother, with tolerant amusement, promised solemnly not to do so, and so my increasingly frequent forays into that world remained for the time being our shared secret. But my discovery of the pleasures of dressing as a girl did have one unexpected side-effect, and that was my mother's growing interest in my boy's wardrobe. Subtly, gently, without pressure and without any explicitly announced intent, she began to alter my masculine style. For the first time, she showed interest in buying new clothes for me - clothes which, without being overtly or pronouncedly effeminate - announced a more upbeat and definitely androgynous style. Skinny jeans were at the time in fashion, and my mother bought several pairs, including an unfeasibly tight pair in glazed, black cotton. I found myself wearing tight, colourful tops, and cashmere cardigans. I remember in particular one purple cardigan in brushed cashmere with flared sleeves, short at the back, but lengthening to two points hanging down at the front. I also started to wear boots over my skinny jeans, and my mother bought me several pairs of nubuck lace-ups, one of which had a slight but perceptible wedge. Although these clothes were - to say the least - unusual for a boy from my background, I managed to carry them off in such a way as to avoid attracting too much attention. Perhaps it helped that when in public I wore them, in general, in the company of my mother. So although my look was commented on by some of my friends, I was never the butt of teasing or the victim of bullying. Indeed, my close and growing friendship with a wide circle of girls was admired and commented on by the more macho boys in my year, and while I increasingly sought the company of girls and grew more distant from my male friends, my oldest friend Charles stayed loyal to me. A stalwart of the junior rugby team, he was popular with other boys, and his friendship perhaps lent an aura of untouchability to me. For himself, he looked upon my gradual evolution from tearaway boy to (as I suppose he would have perceived it) aesthetic androgyne with tolerant amusement. I was also undoubtedly helped by the fact that, although I did not play rugby or any of the other sports, I developed a prowess on the running track, and also became an increasingly admired tennis player (more of this later). These athletic activities suited my wiry frame, and did not require the building up of boyish muscle, which, I dimly perceived, would make my transformation into my girlish alter ego faintly ridiculous. I joined the junior tennis team at the age of 13, and quickly developed a productive doubles partnership with another old school friend of mine, Suzi. Interestingly we had been quite close as young children: she lived not far from us and our mothers had been pregnant at the same time and we had been born in the same hospital within hours of each other. But as her birthday was on 31 August, although we were only a day apart in age, we were separated by the impossible gulf of being in different school years. Now, we renewed our friendship, and so of Suzi too we shall hear more, later in this narrative. As the years passed, my day-time look progressed. My shoes became slimmer and more elegant, my boots tighter, my wedges more pronounced. My mother obtained from somewhere some genuine Scottish tartan, from which she crafted a kilt - tighter and shorter than any real Scottish kilt, but sufficiently convincing to be passed off as such in public. I wore it with a military-style red jacket, with brass buttons and frogging, that my mother had bought from Top Shop, together with a cream silk blouse with frills at the collar and cuffs, knee-socks with tartan darts, and patent slip-ons with brass buckles. If, on wearing this decidedly ambiguous outfit of doors, anybody should suggest that it was girlish, my mother would draw herself up to her full height and say, "Certainly not. This is the genuine Macrae tartan. David's father comes from that clan and as his eldest son, David will be a full member when he comes of age." I have no idea whether there was a Macrae clan or whether it had a tartan, and I doubt my mother did either, but the cover story was delivered sufficiently firmly to be convincing, or at least not disputed by our friends in public. My relations with my mother changed in other ways too. Whilst our relationship had never been difficult, she had always been cool and rather distant before I started wearing dresses. Many mothers dote on their sons, but I think that she had always longed to have a daughter, and regretted the fact that after my father's departure, the prospects of this happening, at least in the immediate future, had diminished sharply. But now we became closer and my mother became affectionate and loving in a way that surprised me, and perhaps her too. We started to share secrets and discuss our hopes and aspirations for the future, and think about how we could together make the most of Katie and all that went with her. Interesting though these developments in my public-facing image were, they constitute a secondary strand to the story, to which we shall now return. As I say, I do not propose to recount my adolescent years in detail, but to focus on episodes which marked new developments in Katie's style, and others which would lead her to a more public role. ++++++ Let us return to the year after my first experiments in dressing up. The weekly bath on Sunday followed by a careful transformation quickly becomes a regular ritual, and for several months I do not take the compulsion further. But inevitably my developing addiction takes control of me. One Friday evening - I think, shortly after Easter - I find myself coming home after a particularly trying day at school, wanting nothing more than to relax quietly at home. I know that my mother will be there as she has told me she has no commitments that evening, although I arrive home well before her. I already know what I am going to do, although I consciously delude myself about my intentions. Perhaps I will just have a bath, change into my pyjamas, and spend a quiet evening watching television or reading. But as I emerge, towelled from the bath, I know that I am going to return to my bedroom, open my wardrobe, and find a dress to wear. By the time of my mother's arrival home and hour later, I am fully dressed waiting for her downstairs. This is the first time I have dressed as a girl on a day other than a Sunday, but my mother does not directly comment on the fact. She does, later, remind me that she sometimes brings friends or colleagues home in the evening, and suggests that I tell her in advance if I am intending to change before she returns home from work. After this first occasion, I start to dress on days other than a Sunday with increasing frequency. I sometimes spend the whole weekend in a dress or skirt. During the school holidays, I start to spend the day as a girl whenever I have no plans to go out or to meet friends. Inevitably, this increases the chances of being discovered, but perhaps there is a part of me that wants other people to find out about Katie, because I am gradually starting to feel that keeping her a secret is becoming obsessive. I have mentioned our gardener, Lisa. She is slim but muscular, with a raw attractiveness that is enhanced by an open, friendly face that is framed by a mop of curly brown hair. She is perhaps in her late twenties - to me an old person, but perhaps ten years younger than my mother. She visits the house on two mornings a week to tend the garden, which is large and rather overgrown. Given her college training, it is no surprise that Lisa takes an active approach to managing the garden, constantly constructing new vistas, and planting and replanting seasonal flowers and shrubs. There is a rockery, a pond with goldfish, a rose garden, and even a roughcut orchard area towards the bottom of the back garden. Brick paths and sundials create a country house effect, although the house and garden are resolutely suburban. Lisa invariably arrives at the house on her motorcycle. She wears a well-worn, tough leather jacket and brown corduroy trousers tucked into laced-up work boots. I often watch her as she parks her bike, removes her jacket to reveal an unironed check shirt, apparently made of thick woollen material, and prepares for the morning's work. Usually, she begins by assembling garden tools from the shed or by tending to plants, potted for future planting, in the greenhouse. She rarely comes into the house itself. I think I forget, one Wednesday during Summer half-term, that Lisa is due to come for the morning. Or perhaps I deliberately ignore the fact because as I have no plans myself for the day, I want - need - to spend the day as Katie. I take an hour after my mother's departure slowly and pleasurably dressing myself. I have chosen a red, checked summer dress, pink ankle socks, and shiny black shoes. I take a long bath, and it must be while I am in the bathroom that Lisa arrives. I am listening to music while I bathe, and do not hear the noise of the motorcycle. Once dressed, I stay in my bedroom. I think that I start to wade through a large pile of holiday homework, and lose track of myself while concentrating on this. So when I hear a knock at the back door, without thinking I trip downstairs into the kitchen and undo the bolts inside the door and swing it open. It is only as the door starts to open that I recollect what I am wearing. I freeze, holding the door half open, but it is already too late. Lisa is standing on the threshold and she has clearly sees me. Her attractive mouth opens, but she says nothing, holding her red lips in an "O" of surprise. There is nothing for it but to let her in, which I do. She has come to connect a hosepipe to a tap in the utility room next to the kitchen (there is no outside tap in the garden), and she scurries past me to do this. I stay rooted to the spot, wondering whether to say something, and if so what. But it is Lisa who breaks the silence as she emerges from the utility room, wiping her soil-covered hands on a rag she has found. She asks me, in a not-unfriendly voice, whether my mother knows what I am wearing. I stammer that she does not (which is true), but that she would not be surprised to find me in this outfit. Lisa nods, as if this confirms what she is thinking. She tells me not to be shy or to be afraid of wearing a dress while she is around, adding the surprising information that she has known other boys (she calls them boys rather than men) who like to wear dresses from her time at college. Finally, she asks me what she should call me, and I say that I like to be called Katie when dressed like this. She gives me an encouraging smile and returns to the garden to complete whatever task she is engaged in. I do not see her again that morning, although she must at some point have come in to the house to disconnect the hose. Although I am reassured by Lisa's tone, and by her refusal to be shocked at my appearance, I am horrified that someone other than my mother now knows about my habit. So it is with some trepidation that I await my mother's return from work that evening. I am still wearing the red dress when she arrives. Before she has removed her coat, I rush towards her and put my arms around her slim waist, and breathlessly, tell her what has happened. (I think I may have sobbed a little.) Mother gives me a thoughtful, rather worried look, as she removes her light tan trenchcoat and kicks off her high heels. She will, I know, soon change out of her smart, dark-coloured business suit into something less formal for the evening. Usually, that is the first thing she does on arriving home. But now she takes me by the hand and leads me into the sitting room and looks me in the eye with a concerned expression. Her striking blue eyes are half hidden behind hooded lids. (I remember her wearing striking blue eye make-up.) "What did Lisa say to you?" she asks. I recount the conversation, word for word as I remember it. "It sounds," she says, "as if she has taken this very much in her stride. Still," she adds thoughtfully, "I think I'd better telephone her now in case there's anything she wants to say to me, and to ask her not to tell anyone else about she's seen." My mother's matter-of-fact approach reassures me, but nonetheless I can tell she is not entirely unworried about how the conversation with Lisa might go. For a moment, she seems lost in thought, frowning a little, before shaking herself into action by going upstairs to change. There is an interval while I hear my mother pottering about upstairs before coming down dressed less formally in black jeans and a bright, stretchy top. She picks up the house phone and dials: I hold my breath. Time, for a moment, stands still. I hear what I think is Lisa's voice pick up, and there is an exchange of pleasantries between the two women. And then my mum says that I have told her what happened earlier in the day. My mind whirls a little, and I hear only snatches of the exchange. "Yes...yes...she did?...Of course, thank you...I'm so glad." As the conversation goes on, the tone lightens, and something of a sparkle enters my mother's voice. I think I hear her inviting Lisa over for the evening. To dinner? It's not altogether clear to me. But at length she puts down the 'phone. "Lisa's OK," she says, "she understands, and she won't do anything to harm us. I think she could be a good friend to you, if you let her." For a moment, I am puzzled. What could she do to harm us, other than to inflict on me some personal anguish? (I think that, although I'm consumed with embarrassment lest my friends at school discover my secret, that it's not occurred to me before now that there might be more adult consequences if some authority learned of my habits and my mother's collusion in them - remember that this was some years before this kind of thing became mainstream.) But my mother hugs me and draws me onto a chair, and we cuddle together, comfortable in our safety and security, and spend a calming evening enjoying each other's company. By the time I go to bed, the crisis of the day seems to have resolved itself. ++++++ Weeks pass. The school summer holidays arrive, and mum and I go on holiday. When I am older, and we have gained in confidence, I will go on holiday with her as a girl, but this year it is too early and the possibility occurs to neither of us. We return home in late August, ready for the beginning of the new school term. It is, of course, my birthday. Just days before school starts, I turn 13. At this age, every birthday seems an important milestone, and perhaps this one is, because on the evening of my birthday, Lisa arrives at our house unannounced. We hear her motorcycle draw up on the drive and peer through the curtains to see what this sound might mean. Lisa is dismounting from her bike, but it is a new Lisa, one whom we have not seen before. Instead of gardening clothes, she is wearing gleaming motorcycling leathers - what turn out to be a one-piece bodysuit - and she has, it emerges after she comes into the house and removed her helmet, taken unusual care with her hair and make-up. We see her rummage in the panniers of her motorcycle and extracting a parcel. It is obvious that the parcel is a birthday gift, but - transfixed by Lisa's appearance - I do not immediately focus on this. There is a dreamlike quality in the way that Lisa glides towards the house, and although we have observed her every movement, mum and I both startle with surprise when she rings the doorbell. After a second's interval, mother gets up from her chair, opens the door, and lets her in. The two women hug each other, and I notice as they separate that Lisa's gloved hand lingers for a moment on my mother's hip. After the usual hellos, Lisa looks at me and smiles. "Hello, birthday girl," she says, although I am, as it happens, dressed as a boy at the time. "I've brought you a present." And she hands over a squashy parcel wrapped in bright red paper and decorated with a golden-coloured ribbon. I look at mum in silent enquiry, and she nods to signal that I should open it. So the three of us process into the living room, and sit down, and the two women look at me as I unwrap the parcel. Inside I find a black dress in glazed cotton. I pick it up and examine it closely - it is lined with slippery purple material, and is zipped down the front from hem to collar in biker style. The collar is piped with white, with two metal studs on the lapels. There are zipped false pockets at the breast and on the hip. Lisa looks at me anxiously, thinking perhaps that she might have been too forward in bringing me such a gift, or that I might be embarrassed, but I rush over to her, and embrace her leather-clad form. I think a tear might have leaked from my eye. "Thank you so much. It's beautiful. The best present you could have brought for me." Lisa, who has been holding her breath nervously, exhales with relief, smiles, and suggests that I try it on. So I rush to my bedroom and tear off my boys' clothes, find some suitable underwear and shoes, slither into the dress and close the zip. It fits perfectly, it feels wonderful, and for a few moments I have difficulty keeping my erection under control. (Not much later, I will become skilled at concealing my penis, but for the moment I am still learning the ropes.) Once I have collected myself, I glide downstairs, and pirouette proudly before the two women, who are sitting close together on the sofa. After they have both expressed their admiration, my mother suggests opening a bottle of wine to celebrate the day. Lisa thinks for a moment, and says that she will gladly have a glass, but it can only be a small one as she is driving, and mum nods in agreement. She goes into the kitchen and comes back with a bottle with a foil top which turns out to contain a sparkling white wine. After a short struggle, she pops the cork and finds three glasses, and pours a glass for herself, and two smaller measures for me and for Lisa. I am unused to drinking alcohol, and am not sure that I like the taste, but I find the warming effect cheering, and as the drink takes its effect, my tongue loosens and my habitual shyness disappears, and I find myself joining in an animated conversation. After a while, Lisa asks me whether I want to wear the dress on a day out. I instantly shake my head in denial, a little shocked by the question. I think I might have looked faintly horrified, and mother tries to change the subject. Nevertheless, Lisa persists. "But I know where you could wear it," she says. "We are having an autumn open day at The House next weekend. I can get you and your mum complimentary tickets. You can walk around the gardens, and have tea with me in the caf?. Nobody will realise you're anything other than a normal and very pretty girl." I feel more than doubtful about this, and my face must have shown it, because Lisa continues, "And you're most unlikely to see anybody you know." The House - the National Trust property where Lisa works - is some miles out of town and perhaps a little off the beaten track for the inhabitants of the small community in which I live: but it's certainly not impossible that a few of my school friends might be there with their parents. On the other hand, there is something instantly beguiling about the possibility of going out dressed in public, and I find myself drawn to the idea. My mother, who sometimes seems to read my thoughts, gives me an assessing look. "Well, maybe," she says to Lisa. "Katie and I will talk about it later." Without thinking she pours Lisa another measure of wine into her empty glass, and refills her own as well. Lisa starts to protest, but my mother stops her with a gesture. "You can stay here for the night. Katie wants you to admire her dress for a little longer, and I'll cook supper for us." Lisa thanks my mother. "But I can't possibly impose on you," she says. "Nonsense," says mum, "we'd both like you to stay," she adds looking meaningfully at me. I nod obediently. "I suppose I could sleep on the sofa," says Lisa. "I don't want to put you to the trouble of making up a bed for me." "It will be no trouble," says mum. She hesitates for a moment, and then says softly, "Or you could always share my bed. It's big enough for both of us, and I don't bite." The two women exchange a look, and then Lisa picks up her glass and drains it. A decision has been made. The rest of the evening passes convivially enough. Mum makes pasta for us all, and a second bottle of wine is opened. The two women chatter and laugh a lot, talking about what they both did during their college days, and gossiping about mutual acquaintances. I talk a little about school and my friends there, and Lisa asks tentatively whether any of them know about Katie, which, of course, they do not. I go to bed at about nine, reluctantly taking off my new dress, and slide under the duvet. The single glass of wine I've drunk has a soporific effect and I doze off quite quickly, only to be awoken - not much more than an hour later - by the sound of the two women coming upstairs. My mother's bedroom door opens and closes again, and I hear the sound of a muffled conversation through the thin wall which separates my room from hers. There is a thud and then another - Lisa is evidently removing her heavy motorcycling boots, and then, fully awake now, I hear my mother go to the bathroom and return. There is more subdued conversation and some soft giggling; and then there are other noises. My curiosity aroused, I strain to listen to what is going on, but the ambiguous sounds are difficult to interpret, and in any case I am drifting off to sleep again. My dreams are rather disturbed - I picture myself going to school in a dress and being unmasked and ridiculed and running home full of embarrassment and shame - and I wake early. I hear the noise of soft conversation from downstairs. It seems that Lisa and my mother are already up, and I dress hurriedly. It seems only polite (well, that is the excuse I made to myself) to wear Lisa's present, and so I trip downstairs listening to the clattering of dishes and cutlery. My mother is evidently making breakfast. As I enter the kitchen, Lisa is sitting down at the table, again wearing her leathers, and my mother, dressed for work stands behind her fiddling with the toaster. She turns round, placing a hand on Lisa's shoulder, looks her in the eyes gives her a smile which Lisa returns. For a moment, I think that the two women are going to kiss, but then they notice me and separate hurriedly. I sit down thoughtfully to eat my breakfast. ++++++ The weekend arrives quickly enough, and although mum and I have not spoken again about Lisa's suggestion, we both know we are going to take it up. On Saturday morning, I dress slowly and pleasurably in the dress Lisa has given me, and mother, having telephoned Lisa to check that she will have time to look after us, shepherds me into the car. The weather is bright but a little cool, and I shiver a little as I cross the garden. I don't yet have a suitable girl's coat to wear. The drive to The House takes about an hour. When we arrive, the car park is reassuringly empty, and as we alight from the car, some of my nervousness disappears. An elderly couple walks purposefully towards The House from their own car, the man nodding a greeting to us as our paths intersect. We head for the gardens, which are in their lush autumn display, and descend a sloping path towards the flighting lake. Waterfowl bob about on the water, and swans and cygnets cruise around, darting towards people from time to time in the hope of being fed. There are perhaps half a dozen people walking around the lake, and two or three more sitting on green painted benches facing the water. To my relief, I see that one of them is Lisa. We greet each other. Lisa gives me a radiant smile and compliments me on my appearance. Lisa is wearing a clingy dress in plain purple material which sets off her figure to advantage, and contrasts pleasingly with her darkish hair. My mother compliments her in turn, and the three of us start walking through the gardens, Lisa pointing out plants and displays and talks animatedly about her work there. I am less interested in the plants than in the look and feel of my clothes (I catch my reflection from time to time in the windows of glasshouses), and am kept constantly on edge as we encounter other visitors, sometimes having to brush past them on the narrow pathways. I attract no particular attention - people, after all, tend to see what they expect to see - and although I start with alarm every time we turn a corner and find somebody around it, there is something rather delicious about the terror of being found out that I cannot describe properly, even to myself. All this changes when we stop for coffee at about 11 o'clock. The small caf? is not busy, but the tables and the uncomfortable wooden seats are crowded together so that we are in close proximity to other customers. After the waitress has taken our order, I notice one other customer looking closely at us, and it is with sheer horror that I realise that it is Mrs.Simmonds, the deputy headmistress of my school. With a slow inevitability, she rises from her chair, carrying her cup and plate rather clumsily, crosses to our table, introduces herself to Lisa (whom she's obviously not seen before), says we should call her Gloria, and asks whether she can join us. My mother's expression suggests that she is trying to think of some excuse to say no, but as Gloria has only moments ago seen the waitress take our order, we can hardly pretend that we're about to leave. My mother introduces Lisa, and then as Mrs.Simmnds looks at me pointedly, says, "And this is my niece, Katie, who's visiting us for the weekend." I fidget a little and try not to blush. Mrs.Simmonds says she is pleased to meet me, but I am too flustered to return her greeting. "My goodness me," she says after a short pause, "she does look very like David, doesn't she." My mother agrees that there is a close family resemblance, and Mrs.Simmonds tries again to entice me into conversation by asking me where I go to school. With a strangled voice, I name the town that my cousin Jill lives in (it's the first place that comes to mind), and that seems to satisfy her, because she gives a friendly nod. "I know the schools there," she says. "They're all very good. Do you go to The Wolsey School? I know the head there." The Wolsey is the school attended by Jill, so I know a little about it, but I am conscious that the pretence is becoming more and more stretched with every sentence. "Yes," I agree, "Mrs Hudson is very nice." Mrs.Simmonds smiles, and seems about to ask me another question, when Lisa intervenes rather abruptly, and asks Gloria what she's here to see. Gloria is here to see the gardens, and Lisa makes known that she is Head Gardener here, and steers the conversation firmly towards plants and away from me. Some animation comes into the conversation as Gloria is evidently a keen gardener, and I start looking around, as if searching for a place to hide. My mother, who has maintained a studied, neutral expression as the conversation has developed, closes her eyes, opens them again and looks at me, and raises her elegant eyebrows. Our order arrives, and I drink my soda quickly. Mother and Lisa also hurry their coffees, although Gloria proceeds more slowly. At one point, she enquires about David, and mum says that he's at home organising his things for the start of school, at which Gloria looks pleased. She looks at me again, and seems about to ask another question, at which point Lisa interrupts once more, and offers to show Gloria around some of the displays, explaining with a slightly false note that she has already shown us around. Gloria doesn't appear to notice this clumsiness and looks pleased at the invitation, so the two women rise to go. My mother puts my hand on Lisa's arm and whispers something under her breath into Lisa's ear. Lisa nods. As we are left alone, the tension subsides a little, and I breathe out for what feels like the first time for five minutes. I exchange glances with mum, and although no words are said, we both stand up in agreement and hurry back to the car park. We have, I think, had the narrowest of escapes. Lisa has been a star. ++++++ The sequel to this story comes a few days later after my return to school. One morning after assembly, I'm summoned to the Head's office. Although I can't think of a reason why I might be in any sort of trouble, I'm a little nervous, and my nervousness increases as I'm kept waiting outside for a few minutes. But when the door opens and I'm beckoned in, the Head's friendly smile reassures me for a moment. She begins by asking me what I've been doing over the summer, and I give some conventional answers, and tell her about our holiday. The Head, Ms.Scott, is a strong and forceful woman, but she can also be charming, and for a few minutes we talk generally about my interests and my ambitions at school. And then she gets to the nub of the matter. "I've been talking to Mrs.Simmonds," she says, "about our LGBT policy." I'm not at all sure what an LGBT policy is, and I certainly don't know about the school's. I mumble something in response. "It's surprising," she says, "how many younger children identify as gay or transgender nowadays, and I'm looking for ways of reaching out to anybody who might be conflicted about their sexuality. I'm talking to students about how we might do this, and I wondered if you might have any ideas." She stands with her back to me, looking out of her study window as she says this. I shake my head. If she's suggesting I might be a role model, I want to have no part of it. I wonder what Mrs.Simmonds has said, and whether she has formed, and divulged suspicions about Katie's true identity. I temporize. "Are you asking all the students the same question?" I want her to say what it is about me that caused her to summon me. She looks embarrassed. "Not really. Just a few. But Mrs.Simmonds mentioned seeing your mother with some friends at The House during the weekend, and that made me think of you." We are skating around the subject. "Really," I say, "I don't think I've got any special knowledge to contribute here. I'm too young to have had sex with anybody, and in particular with another boy." There is a long pause. Ms.Scott sighs. "It's not just about having sex. There are many forms of diversity that can cause problems for young people - whom people are attracted to, how they behave, how they present themselves in public. We just wondered whether you might have something to say about any of those things, or any other issue that might trouble you." It was time to cut the conversation short. With more confidence than I felt, I say, "Sorry, I don't think I can really help you." Ms.Scott looks down and fiddls with some papers. "Well, think about it. If you decide there's anything you want to tell us, or if you need support in any way, come and see me again. I promise you that if you do have concerns in this area, the school will support you." She nods to me, indicating I can leave. I stand up and walk to the door. But as I open it, Ms.Scott makes one final try. "Mrs.Simmonds is a very perceptive and sympathetic woman, you know. When she says to me that one of our pupils might be in need of help, she's generally right. So it's over to you." I smile at her, and retreat from the room. In the corridor, I lean against the wall, trembling a little. I don't doubt the school's good intentions, but once it becomes known that I'm being supported because of some aspect of my gender orientation - and inevitably that will happen - then all and sundry will know about my lifestyle. And at the age of 13, that is definitely something I do not want. ++++++ A few weeks later, we are visited by my Aunt Jean and my cousin Jill. They have arranged to come over for tea, and inevitably mum has made a new outfit for Jill which she's keen to try. This consists of a rather beautiful purple skirt and a long-sleeved cotton top fastened by buttons at the back. The top has a purple background, and a pattern of leaves and tendrils picked out in pale green. It is rather a struggle to put on, but Jill loves it, and once she's fully dressed, she and I retreat to my bedroom to entertain ourselves while mum and Jean gossip downstairs. We have been listening to music and playing happily for half an hour or so when I hear mum calling from downstairs. At first, I don't hear what she's saying properly, so I go out onto the landing and shout down to her to repeat what she's said. The gist of it is that she's about to make some tea, and could I ask Jill whether she wants something to eat. We then have a brief discussion about what might be available, and after what can only be a minute or two at the very most, I return to the bedroom. The sight which greets me is, in plain terms, a disaster. Jill is standing before my wardrobe, which has swung open, and is staring at the racks of dresses and skirts and other girly paraphernalia which hang within. I hastily cross the room and slam the door shut but, of course, it is too late. Jill must know that this number of garments cannot be intended for her or for the twins or for anybody other than me. There are quite simply too many outfits there, some of which show signs of having been recently worn. The dialogue which follows is painful as I try to maintain - or perhaps to retrieve - my dignity. But Jill, as she might, brushes aside my frantic attempts to claim that the clothes are intended for someone else. My stammered denials become steadily more desperate, but I cannot shake Jill's certainty. At least, however, she does not laugh at me. "It's OK," she says soothingly. "If you like wearing dresses, we can still be friends. It's not that weird, you know. After all, I like wearing dresses." It seems to me that that's not at all the same thing, but I don't say so. My eyes are moist with emotion, and I implore Jill not to tell her mother. "Silly," says Jill. "I bet she already knows. Your mum and mine tell each other everything." I hope - desperately - that this is not true, but as I say this, I know that Jill might well be right. And then another thought strikes me. If Jill and Jean know about my habit, what about my other cousins, the twins, and their mother? I suddenly have a nightmare vision of the twins, with their cruel steak of humour, mocking and teasing me, and I know that their mother will do nothing to restrain them, and this thought seems to me too awful to contemplate. Jill suggests that I might like to change into a dress now. Perhaps, she says, it will relax me, and for a moment I am tempted. But then I realise that it will be too unnervingly embarrassing. And I know that my mother will be taken aback if I suddenly appear downstairs in front of Jean in my guise as Katie. So when we go down to tea I am still in boy mode, and nothing is said about the scene upstairs. The conversation between my mother and Jean continues over tea, and is lively and full of information about happenings at Jill's school, about Jean's plan for a summer holiday, and Jill's passion for swimming. Jill joins in enthusiastically, but I remain quiet, which my mother notices, casting worried looks in my direction. After tea, Jill changes back into the clothes she was wearing when she arrived, her new outfit is folded into an old carrier bag, and the two of them leave. After we have waved them goodbye from the doorstep, I collapse into an armchair and heave a sigh which might signify relief at Jill's departure, or perhaps anguish at the general situation. "Spit it out," says my mother kindly. "What's wrong?" And so I tell her the whole story - Jill's discovery of my secret wardrobe, my embarrassed attempts to explain and deny, Jill's not unreasonable insistence that the clothes are mine, and her certainty that Jean knows all about my habit. "You haven't told her, have you mum?" My mother insists she has not, and hugs me reassuringly. "But, you know, she's bound to find out from Jill. I can't imagine her keeping quiet about it." And of course I realise this must be true. "Never mind, though," she continues. "It sounds as if Jill has taken it in her stride, and Jean's a kind woman. She'll understand or," she thinks for a moment, "at the very least she won't think the worse of you. I'll have a word with her in a day or two, and let you know what she says." But I didn't have to wait a day or two to find out what Jean might think. The phone rings an hour or so later, and when my mother answers it, it is plainly Jean on the other end. Mother shoos me out of the room and, upset and worried, I retreat to my room. I've scarcely been there for a few seconds when my mobile rings. It's Jill. "Mum didn't know about you-know-what," she says. "I'm sorry. I just assumed she did. Well, I'm afraid she does now." I collapse on the bed, and make an inarticulate sound. But Jill, whether she hears me or not, ploughs on. "The thing is," she says, a note of excitement in her voice, "she's suggested you come and stay with us. And that you bring your girl clothes with you when you do." A hundred conflicting thoughts rush through my mind. This is worse than I had feared. A few days dressed as Katie would, in other circumstances, have been something I would be desperate to experience. But in a strange town, under the critical eyes of Jean and Jill. It is unthinkable. I try to explain this to Jill, but she is having none of it. "It'll be fun. " No it won't. It will be excruciatingly embarrassing. But my objections are brushed aside. "I'm excited to see you in all the outfits your mum has made for you. She makes lovely clothes, and I bet they suit you down to the ground," gushes Jill with enthusiasm. And then, "By the way, what do we call you when you visit us." I swallow hard. I realise as I say it that by doing so, I'm admitting my complicity in - my enjoyment of - dressing as a girl, and that I'm implicitly accepting the fact that I'll take up Aunt Jean's invitation. But: "Katie. I'm called Katie." ++++++ If I had known what lay in the future, perhaps I wouldn't have agreed to go to stay with Jill. But in any event, the following Easter after the school holidays had started, I find myself packing a largish suitcase with Katie's clothes, and a few of my own, just in case. The telephone conversation - all those weeks ago - between my mother and Jean had, my mother keeps assuring me, been entirely positive. Jean is anxious to befriend Katie, and it will do me - Katie - good to mingle with other people. It will boost her confidence, and perhaps Katie will then feel able to go out in public at home. If only. Before we leave, Lisa roars up to the house on her bike, greeting mum with an affectionate kiss. This, and the accompanying embrace, once more seem to me redolent of more than simple friendship, but I say nothing. In truth, I like Lisa, and even to my 13 year old self, it seems that her friendship has been good for my mother, who has seemed happier and much more relaxed since Lisa became more than a simple gardener. It emerges that she and mum are going to spend a few days touring together while I'm staying with Jill, and I'm glad about that too. Mum's job has been frantic recently, and she's in need of a holiday, Lisa changes out of her leathers (she has started to keep some of her clothes at our house now), and the three of us climb into mum's car for the hour's journey to Aunt Jean's house. My mother and Lisa have persuaded me to dress as Katie for the journey (black needlecord skirt, bright blue top made from rather clingy T-shirt material, knee-length patterned socks, black patent slip-ons) and while I had hoped to make a gentler debut as Katie, it will be good to have mum and Lisa's support when Katie introduces herself to Jean and Jill. My recollection of our arrival is confused. I remember Jean gushing over my appearance and congratulating my mother on the outfit she has made for me. Jill, too, seems enthusiastic and happy to see me. "It's good to have a new friend," she babbles, "and such a pretty one too." Lisa is also introduced as a close friend of my mother's because, of course, she has not met Jean or Jill before, and Aunt Jean casts a knowing eye over her, evidently making assumptions about the nature of their friendship. Even Jill asks me, after they have departed, "Are your mother and Lisa lovers." I giggle. 'Lovers' seems a rather quaint term to use, but I struggle to explain the nature of their relationship, admitting only that yes, they do sometimes share the same bed. I remember the first few days of my stay as idyllic. Aunt Jean and Jill have obviously thought carefully about how to make me feel welcome and comfortable as Katie, and they are quite successful. I experience no sense of embarrassment or unreality when passing as my alter ego, and indeed throughout those early days with them there is no question of my ever dressing as David. The three of us go out shopping together, and Aunt Jean insists on buying me a new blouse "as my welcome present to Katie". Jill and I play tennis (I borrow one of her short tennis skirts), which is one of my favoured sports. We spend time in the local park, and go out as a family for a pizza one lunchtime. All in all, I settle into my role as Jean's niece quite happily. I even start thinking of myself as a girl, and not simply as a boy who gets pleasure from dressing as one. On my third day there, Jill and I are ambling around town when we encounter a tall, grey-haired lady who greets Jill warmly. She looks enquiringly at me, and Jill introduces me as her cousin Katie from Barroton. "Mrs.Jennings is our Head of Year," she explains to me. Mrs.Jennings looks at me appraisingly. "Which school do you go to?" she asks. "Hanburn House High School," I say. Mrs.Jennings looks delighted, and I start to worry. "I know that school quite well," she says, and I try to wrack my brains to remember whether I've seen her there, but with no success. "I was at college with Gloria Simmonds, the Deputy Head there, and Mrs.Hudson the head knows her too. The three of us keep in quite close touch. I'll mention to Gloria that I've met you." My heart sinks. There is, I think, no Katie of my age in the school, and Mrs.Simmonds has been introduced to Katie as David's cousin who lives where I am right now, who attends The Wolsey school where Mrs.Jennings teaches. When they speak, the two of them will surely put two and two together, and identify the two Katies that they have met in different locations, professing to go to two different schools, as one and the same person. And it is surely but a small step from there to work out that Katie and David might also be the same person. Indeed, from my conversation in September with Ms.Scott, Mrs.Simmonds seems already to be reaching that conclusion. I struggle to think of something I can say which will put them off the scent but nothing occurs, and I remain unsettled after we part. Somehow, I can't bring myself to tell Jill what I'm worrying about, but she senses my discomfort. "What's wrong. Mrs.Jennings had no reason to believe you weren't who we said you were. She didn't guess that you might not be..." and then she tails off, blushing at her own tactlessness. "That's not what I'm worried about," I said. But when Jill asks me to explain, I refuse to elaborate. Perhaps, in retrospect, that was a mistake. My uneasy thoughts are put to one side when we arrive back at Jill's house, however, when I see a motorcycle parked outside, which I recognise as Lisa's. I'm puzzled for a moment, until we enter the house and find not just Lisa but also my mother drinking tea with Aunt Jean. My mother is transformed, and now wears a set of leathers identical to Lisa's. To my knowledge, she has never even been on a motorcycle before, so this transformation from respectable banker to leather-clad biker is all the more improbable. I kiss her on the cheek and smile at Lisa. "We thought we'd look in on you as we were in the area," says my mother. Are they checking up on me, or does my mother simply want to show off her new outfit, I wonder? But I am pleased to see them, and I talk enthusiastically about what I've been doing with Jill, not mentioning my encounter with Mrs.Jennings. My mother tells me about the places she and Lisa have been visiting during their short holiday. "I thought you'd be in your car, not on Lisa's bike," I find myself saying. "I didn't think you liked bikes." She smiles. "Lisa's been encouraging me to give it a try. And I'm not too old to take up a new hobby." She strokes her left thigh as she speaks, casting a fond glance at Lisa. She has, it seems, enjoyed the experience, and after all, I think to myself, why not? The visit doesn't last long, and Jill and I watch their departure through her bedroom window. They stand for a moment by the bike, exchanging a few quiet words while they each pull on a pair of leather gauntlets, and then Lisa leans forward and the two of them kiss tenderly, before putting on their helmets and climbing into the saddle. "Lovers," says Jill, "I knew it." ++++++ The encounter with Mrs.Jennings has unsettled me, but on reflection, although I'm still nervous about the encounter, I feel reasonably confident that I can deal with Mrs.Simmonds if she tackles me on my return home. She has, after all, offered the school's support, and I think to myself that even if I have to acknowledge that Katie and David are two sides of the same person, she will accept my wish not to reveal this more widely within the school. So I put my worries to one side, and continue to enjoy myself with Jill, revelling in simply being Katie, in an environment where the danger of discovery is pretty remote. But a couple of days later something happens which completely changes things. Jill and I are playing in her garden, when we hear the doorbell ring inside the house. The door opens and, fatally curious to see who it is we wander inside. I hear an unpleasantly familiar voice. "...so sorry to burst in on you without warning, but we were in the area, and I thought we'd drop in. We tried to call on Julia, but she doesn't seem to be in. So we drove over here on the off-chance." Horror of horrors: this was my other aunt, Jacky. And if Jacky was here Jenny and June my spiteful twin cousins would also be here. Why have the three of them tried to call on my mother - Julia - and why have they come on to see Jean? Jill and I linger just out of Jacky's sight, straining to listen. "Actually, I've not heard from Julia for months. I wondered if you had seen her recently, and knew whether she was OK." This seems odd to me: Aunt Jacky has never been conspicuously interested in my mother's welfare, and has visited only when she wants something from her. Ah yes. Of course. Autumn is not that far away, and the twins' birthdays beckon. Jacky would have been wondering whether mother was busying away at her sewing machine for them. Perhaps Jacky intends to make a suggestion or a request. Or perhaps the twins have been nagging her. I glance sharply at Jill and make a gesture indicating that we should clear off somewhere so that we can avoid having to meet Jenny and June, but the two of them are already careering noisily around the garden, and with grim inevitability they spot us trying to conceal ourselves around the corner of the house. I think wildly about whether I can escape, perhaps by insisting that I go "home", but of course there is no home in the area for me to go to, so I would have to find somewhere to hang around for an hour or two until Jacky and her brood depart. But while I am wrestling with this Jacky comes over and gives Jill an insincere hug, and insists that she and "her friend" join them in the house. Aunt Jean, as she well might, looks far from pleased with this suggestion, but is evidently unable to think of a plausible excuse not to ask her unwelcome guests inside, and so, with varying degrees of reluctance, all six of us troop into the house. Jacky and the twins are seated in the living room, and Jean retreats to the kitchen to make tea, asking Jill and I to come with her to help with plates and biscuits. It is evident that Jean is as nervous as I am about the possibility of my being discovered, and the likely reaction of the twins if that happens. "I'll find some way of getting them out of the house quickly. Jill, you keep the twins distracted, and Katie - stay in the background and say as little as possible. Don't, whatever you do, agree to go into the garden or up to your room to play." We return to the living room. In order to justify all three of us having retreated into the kitchen, we each return carrying something - Jean with the teapot, Jill rather unnecessarily bringing a separate tray with cups and saucers, and me carrying a plate of biscuits. Tea is poured, biscuits are handed round (the twins each grabbing a generous handful), and we are all seated. I try to sit unobtrusively on a footstool in the corner of the room, but inevitably as the perceived stranger, I have to be introduced, and my presence, as a supposed school friend of Jill, explained. For a while, things go as well as they might, but after ten minutes or so, the twins become restless and start wandering around the room, trying to engage Jill and I in conversation. Jean and Jacky are talking about my mother, and my guess that Jacky wants to make a suggestion about a likely present for the twins is confirmed when she starts talking about clothes that they'll need for the winter. Jenny proposes to Jill that we (June, Jenny, Jill and I) should go upstairs and listen to some music, and when that idea is rejected June - always the more mischievous and malevolent of the two - starts fiddling with the TV. Jacky, rather surprisingly, tells the twins sharply to behave, but this only results in the two of them going into a huddle and whispering to each other. Through all this, I have been trying to be as unobtrusive as possible and to avoid attracting attention, but of course this is a vain hope. It is again spiteful June whose curiosity is first aroused, and she comes over on the spurious pretext of drawing me into the conversation. And inevitably, she notices and gleefully points out to Jill her friend's resemblance to her cousin David. "Same hair, same eyes, even the same voice. Are you sure it's not David in disguise." "It is David." This from Jenny. "It's got to be. Wearing a dress. Just wait till we tell Auntie Julia what you've made him do." Of course, they have no way of knowing for certain that I'm really David, but that won't stop them making fun of me when they meet me at home in a few weeks' time. And even now, my hot denials fail - even to my own ears - to carry conviction. I feel my eyes growing moist. I find myself blushing, trembling, on the verge of tears. Jean of course tries to intervene, and even Jacky, to her credit, tells her daughters to calm down. But the damage is done. The two of them continue to call me David, giggling maliciously as they do so, and although Jill angrily tells them to stop teasing her friend, they are irrepressible. The jokes they make at my expense are cruel and pointed, and for my liking far too close to the bone. After a few minutes of this Jean puts her foot down. "I really think it's time for you to go. The twins are upsetting Jill and Katie. And in any case, I've got things to do." Jacky looks surprised, and then irritated and annoyed. She asks if they can stay a little longer, because there's something she needs to talk about, but Jean says no. "Will you at least call Julia and tell her I need to speak to her. She's not been returning my calls." Jean looks at the twins, gathered around their mother. Their expressions suggest guilt, defiance, triumph, all at the same time. Jacky looks down at them fondly. "No," says Jean. "I don't think I'll do that." Jacky throws her an angry, questioning look. "Because if I did, and you visited, it's obvious that the twins are going to be getting at David. And I don't want to be blamed for that." Jacky huffs and puffs a bit, but then grabs the twins by their shoulders, and steers them through the door. It is with bad grace that the three unwelcome visitors depart. And of course as soon as they do, I burst into tears, inconsolable despite the efforts of Jean and Jill to comfort me. We follow them with our eyes as they walk down the front path and get into their battered old Ford. Jacky starts the engine and the car lurches forward. In the rear window, I can see the smug, spiteful faces of June and Jenny, grinning cruelly as their mother drives away into the distance. For the first time for what seems like hours (although it can scarcely have been more than half an hour) there is silence. For a long moment, none of us says anything Jean makes to comfort me but I hold up my hand, palm facing her. I don't want to be comforted: a hug is unlikely to calm me down, and will more probably result in more tears. Jean hesitates; I swallow. "I want a bath," I say, and Jean nods. I retreat up the stairs. I stay soaking in the tub as long as I decently can, before drying myself and looking out some clothes. It is as David, not Katie, that I dress. When I return downstairs, Jean just nods, as if she has been expecting that. Jill looks sad, but says nothing. Little is said as we get through the rest of the day somehow. At night, all too predictably, my sleep is interrupted by unsettling dreams of June and Jenny. My mother picks me up two days later, arriving in her sporty little car. She is cheerful when she arrives, but there is a hurried, whispered conversation between her and Jean which sobers her considerably. She has already frowned on seeing me dressed as David, and now she simply gives me a hug and ushers me into the car. Jill kisses me goodbye, and says that she hopes I can forget what has happened with the twins, and regain my good mood, but I simply nod and try to force a smile. The journey home is a long, silent one. When we arrive, I retreat immediately to my room. Mum brings up my suitcase and starts to unpack, hanging Katie's clothes in my wardrobe. I stand up and walk over, looking at the dresses and skirts she is arranging wistfully. But I've reached a decision. "Mum," I say, "I don't think I can be Katie any more." Mother freezes mid-way through hanging up my rather beautiful purple dress. "Darling..." she pauses, uncertain what to say. "It's up to you of course. But I wouldn't want you to make yourself miserable just because of one bad experience." But of course, it's not just that one bad experience I'm worrying about. It's the possibility that others might be equally cruel if they find out about Katie. And then there's the probable forthcoming interview with Mrs.Simmonds, which suddenly seems a lot harder to deal with. I say nothing. Mum shuts the wardrobe door and looks at me helplessly. "OK darling," she says. "No one's going to force you." And then, "How long do you think this will last." I hesitate, looking out of the window. "I don't know," I say, "Maybe forever." Mum looks at me, then looks at the closed wardrobe and shrugs. She's evidently upset, but I'm guessing she can't think of anything useful to say. She walks out of the bedroom, leaving me alone to my turbulent, unhappy thoughts. Later, she will try to comfort me, and persuade me once more that I shouldn't let two unpleasant girls like the twins spoil my life for me. But my mind is made up.