My Goodness!

Must admit to recently losing enchantment with my blog. I'd established it as a commercial-free sort of round table where Transvestites and Cross Dressers could speak their minds without shame or embarrassment.  Where we could let our hair (or wigs) down freely.
But after eighteen months,  I was starting to get the idea that most of us were still deeply entrenched in our closets and didn't want to come out. I was getting readership in larger quantities than I ever expected, but at the same time was hardly getting any participation at all.
Now?  I have to thank Belinda for what she has accomplished single handed - well almost, considering she is reliant on input from others.  Who'd have thunk it?  A story by committee?  Bloody wonderful Belinda.  Thank you.
Mind you?  I'm curious.  Like I said recently, I think that a story needs a rough ending before you ever start. Secondly? I feel that a story must have some 'conflict'.  It's not necessary that the conflict be started baldly - but the its resolution should be the end.  Like I say?  I'm curious.
Saw Man of La Mancha last week.  Believe it or don't, neither my wife nor I had ever seen it performed in any media.  Enjoyed the hell out of it.
Apart from walking my dog early yesterday, we spent practically the whole day watching the Olympics.  Must admit that I was impressed - and quite emotional at times.  It just seems to me that it has become truly commercial. I actually attended the Olympics in Sydney. Thought the opening fantastic.  Nowadays?  Just bloody spectacular.  Something for the media to bloat themselves on.
Know damn well that we'll go back to watching, but after yesterday, we decided to shut the TV off until evening today.  One of those days?  I sort of wish they'd have the actual athletes perform more in the opening ceremonies. - but that's wishful thinking.  Would have to be better than having them do nothing but walk around a track.
I haven't given any of Rosie's 'Bits' in the last few weeks - but thought I'd give a few more today, as well as the next episode in my current serial.
Again you guys (Gals?  Sissies?) -  participate!

A Pretty Girl is Like a Malady

Begining of Part 3

"Great!"  Suzie said.  "Comfortable Cecilia?"

I was embarrassed, but comfortable, so nodded.  She then proceeded to take special care in making tiny marks around the top curve of the breast forms, but on my skin.  Then she had me put my hands between the breasts and the bra material and warned me not to let them move, while she took the bra off.  Then she took her marker and made some more marks around the bottom curve.

Then, as I said, we spent hours trying different bras on me.  I actually had lunch (they sent out for a pizza) in my boysenberry 'discreet' model bra – the one with the low décolletage and lace embroidery, while Suzie served some customers.  When I went into the car wearing one of my new purchases, it felt almost normal. Carole started speaking almost immediately.

"You'll be meeting her tonight, but I'd like you to meet a friend of mine – Shannon - in her professional capacity.  She's really nice and a good friend of mine. I'll expect you to behave now, she's very good looking and kinda flirty – but I don't want I don't want you flirting back now!"

Flattered by this reference to my masculinity I said "Sure! What's on tonight?"

"Just bringing a few friends of mine over that I especially want you to meet.  Nothing formal."

"That'll be nice.  I hope you're not going to any trouble.?" I said.

"You better make damn sure that I'm not put to any trouble!" she said ominously.  Then her charming smile came back. "I'm sorry! I do get so bossy!  You don't mind, do you?"

"Never!" I replied.  "I think you're wonderful.  Can do no wrong in MY eyes!"

She smiled. "You're such a sweet little sissy – I'm sorry, if I'm calling you Cecilia now, you must be a girl, mustn't you?"

"I guess so, Carole,"  I agreed abjectly, staring down at the floorboards. Right at that point, I remembered something.  Sighed a big sigh of relief, because I was beginning to have an idea of what happened if I did something wrong around my young niece.

"Carole?" I spoke meekly. "I'm  very very sorry.  But I almost forgot something.  Please forgive me?"

"Of course dear Cecilia. Not when you ask me like that! What was it?"

"I had to remind you about a paddle?"

"Oh!  You ARE a good little girl!  Mmmm! Could give you a big hug!  Your timing is perfect!  You're forgiven!"

I'd no idea where we were.  In our travels that morning we'd covered a fair distance and I knew we were well out of Felton.  Was somewhat surprised when we drove into a large modern mall. Carole let out a whoop of pleasure as she found a parking spot right outside Nordstroms.  "There's something that doesn't happen every day!" she crowed.

I joined her in walking into the store. Like most stores of this kind, the cosmetics section was right there as we walked in.  She immediately made a bee-line for  one of the sections. "Yo Shannon!" she called to a pretty auburn haired girl standing behind the counter.

 She was a pert little thing, very much the typical cosmetic sales clerk.  Rather heavy on the makeup with some freckles just showing under the makeup.  She recognized Carole immediately, flashed a big smile and waved. "Yo yourself!  Is this the famous uncle Ron?"

"Well, kinda." Carole said, then added to my everlasting shame. "But I prefer that she be called Cecilia now.  I'm teaching him how to be a girl."

Shannon giggled. "Hi Cecilia! Nice to meet you. You know?  In my professional opinion?  You'd make quite a nice looking girl. But no offense, I'd say 'woman' more than 'girl'"

"Her professional opinion?" Carole sneered happily.  "Works part time here for three months, and thinks she's a hotshot!"

"Aw shut up!" Shannon retorted. "Cecilia?  Is there anything I can do for you?"

Before I could stutter an answer, Carole spoke up.  "Maybe! He's wearing a pair of mom's panties, and we've just been out getting him fitted for bras,"  she said casually. "Here Cecilia!  Open up your shirt a little at the front.  Let Shannon see your pretty bustier!"

Shamefaced, I quickly obeyed by facing Shannon across the counter and undoing one of my shirt buttons and spreading the shirt wider to reveal the material of the bustier.

"That's not enough Cecilia!  A little more please!"  Carole said behind me.

From the tone of her voice I knew that I'd better be quick, so widened the shirtfront gap by following her orders.

"Obedient little thing, isn't she?" Shannon said mockingly, poking a finger with a long fingernail done in a garish copper into the opening of my shirt then, Teal!  How nice! And the lace is lovely!   You have such nice taste Cecilia!"

"Yes she does.  Picked that out all by herself.  Right Cecilia?"  Carole said.  Then she added. "Know what Shannon?  She IS obedient. Just reminded me that I should go and buy her a proper paddle – a spanking paddle.  You don't look too busy.  Want to experiment on her while I go look?  I'll only be about ten minutes tops.  Wouldn't that be nice Cecilia?"

I wasn't quite understanding what she was talking about, but nodded my head rapidly.

"Bloody marvelous!" Shannon said. "Estee Lauder has this presentation for some of their skin care products – but I've been looking for an older type lady to agree with being my model.  But I'll need her for fifteen minutes.  Okay Carole?"

"Her time is your time," Carole responded laughing.  "Cecilia?  I'll expect you over in the lingerie section as soon as she's finished with you."  With that she gave me a tiny wave, and took off.

"Okay Cecilia?" Shannon was saying.  "Hoist your bum up onto that chair there would you?  It has a swivel.  Then swivel it around so that you're facing me.  Then move it forward, so that I can reach your face without stretching.  I'm a short ass and don't want to be breaking my back reaching across This counter to get to you."

"What's this all about Shannon?" I asked nervously.

She was bustling about and pulling stuff up onto the counter, so was only paying me about half of her attention.

"Easy.  Don't worry.  I'll have you looking nice in no time. Though I want to pluck a few of your eyebrows. Would that be okay?"

"Pluck some of my eyebrows?" I asked in disbelief.

"Yes.  It won't hurt – maybe just a little.  Then I'm going to make you up.  As you'll be my first model for this stuff, I'll be giving you a mess of freebies.  So lets get started.  Would you lean forward please Cecilia?"

While she'd been bustling around I'd refastened my shirt and had actually started to recover some of my composure. It may sound strange, but the idea that I was about to be made up in a major department store with ladies walking all about had taken a long time to soak in.  It did now, though and I stared at her in terror.

She read my mind I think. A kind expression softened her face. "How long you been with Carole now Ron?  A day?"

"Just about." I replied.

She sighed. "I don't want to do this if you're unwilling.  But if you're not?  I'd suggest you run away, somewhere far, and hide.  Carole can be very tough to get along with if you get on her bad side."

She leaned forward and spoke confidentially. "Ron?  She's going to have you wearing dresses pretty soon.  Do you know that?"

"Yes." I said simply, and stuck my face forward.

She patted my shoulders. "That's a girl Cecilia.  Just wait!  You're going to love this!"

As she demonstrated a new eyebrow removal technique involving some sort of electronic wand, she started raising her voice a little describing what was going, which started drawing the interest of some spectators, who started crowding in a little closer, asking questions.  She actually made some sales I think.

I must admit that it was relatively painless, though I did let out the occasional 'ouch', which drew some scornful remarks from one young woman about what babies men were, which was followed by a rejoinder from her friend that I wasn't much of a man as far as she could see.

This was embarrassing enough, but when I saw the shape she had structured my eyebrows in, I was aghast.  It wasn't the perfect arc that a lot of women have.  It was more like a fine arc going across the bone behind it, then flaring up a little towards the temple.  She had totally removed all of the eyebrows close to the ridge of my nose.  This had been bad enough, but the true humiliation began when she started in on the actual cosmetics.

The onlookers had been puzzled by the fact that I was getting my eyebrows plucked, but left it at that.  When they saw the foundation being applied, then followed by blush, then powder – all followed by eyeshadow, eyeliner, mascara – a few mocking comments started, though as my face became more and more female, new attendees probably thought I was a girl – even asking me questions as I progressed.  Unfortunately, my voice gave me away.  You'd have thought that this would entail more mockery but, if anything, it went the opposite way – with a growing audience coming to see the 'guy getting a makeover'.  The questions were now more like.  "See!  How do YOU feel having to go through all this bother, to make yourself attractive, huh?"  But there wasn't any spite in them now – more jocularity than anything else.

Shannon was very careful with my lips. "I'm going to suggest some collagen for you dearie. Your lips are kinda pinched. Plump them up a little?  You'll have a gorgeous mouth!"  She used a fine pencil to outline the form she wanted my lips to take, then a brush to paint in between the lines.  I shuddered at the dark shade she was applying but was too scared to comment.  She then went over my mouth with a sort of wax that put a high gloss on them.

The face that stared back from the mirror she held in front of me was a girl – but the hair wasn't- nor were the clothes. She was finished with me now, and gave me a complimentary travel case with a lot of Estee Lauder products in it. "Thanks a lot Cecilia" she said.  "Got to take care of those customers now.  See you tonight?"

"I guess so.  Thanks Shannon," I said, and headed for the lingerie department where I could see Carole had just arrived.

She was delighted at my new appearance, but showed a great deal of concern for my feelings. "You must feel awkward dear.  You're starting to look like a woman in men's clothes.  Want to go home?"

"Oh yes Carole.  Please?"

She smiled and gave me a little hug. "Maybe in a little while?  If you're good?"

The little while encompassed me having to go and buy a wig – woman's naturally.  Actually?  The stand where she took me was outside Nordstroms in the mall proper.  So once again, I'm having to sit while various styles and colors were tried on me. The girl and Carole having a great time.  Again, it was strange.  With my cosmetics being the way they were, if I was wearing a wig, the shoppers past by without a second look – I was simply another girl trying on wigs.  If, however, I was between try ons, I was a made up young male, trying on women's wigs – which drew more than my share of stares and sniggers.  Naturally, I began preferring to be wearing a wig and was quite pleased when Carole picked a fairly conservative ash blonde, wavy style, with just a touch of a flip at the back.  She also picked a flashier blonde style, slightly longer than shoulder length – but put that in her bag.

Once I was fitted, I felt more comfortable.  Sure, I was still in men's clothes, but apart from my shoes, I looked better than a lot of the real women who shopped in the mall.  And the shoes were next. I got rid of my socks at Carole's 'suggestion' and replaced them with a pair of knee-highs – and bought two pair of flats – one tan and the other white. While there, she bought me a cheap handbag. My wallet, cards, photos, and cash were put in it and my wallet discarded. After my male shoes were discarded in a trash bin, I was almost totally assimilated into the female customers that surrounded me in the mall.

The lingerie purchases were a breeze after that.  I even got up enough confidence to question Carole as to why we hadn't bought all of the panties, slips, garter belts, camisoles and suchlike at Suzanne's.  She looked at me as if I was crazy. "I knew you needed a custom fit for your bras dear – but you must think I'm stupid if you think I'd pay her prices for this kind of stuff.  Plus? I thought you'd been embarrassed enough there.  Wasn't that nice of me dear?"

I was stunned by the illogic in her last comment, but had enough sense to agree enthusiastically, even while she looked at me with quietly mocking eyes.

We walked back through Nordstroms on our way back to the car, waving to Shannon as we passed.  She smiled, but was busy with a customer, so we just climbed into the car when we got there and took off.

Then, I'll be damned if Carole didn't confound me again.  I was truly exhausted.  The day seemed like it had lasted for ever – and I guess that the emotional roller coaster I'd been on was a large factor as well.  I was looking forward to getting home.  I knew there was some kind of party thing with her friends that evening, but figured I'd have time for a nap.  The next thing I know, she's driving into a gas station and stopping at the rest rooms.  And staring at me again!  Her voice as cold as ice.

"Honest to god Ron! Do you realize what you look like?  Damned pansy, that's what!  Suppose some of my friends are at the house, waiting for us?  What are they going to think?  Covered in makeup!  Wearing women's undergarments!  Wearing a goddam wig!  Go in to that restroom and see if you can possibly come back looking like a man!"

I know that my mouth unhinged enough that I heard a crick noise in my jaw. What was she up to!  It was almost as if she'd totally forgotten who was actually responsible for my appearance!  But there again, wasn't there always the possibility that my nightmare had ended?  Maybe she had two separate characters who didn't know what the other one did?   Maybe I was off the hook?

Afraid that she was going to punish me for taking her up on her offer, or worse yet, rescind it, I slowly worked my way out of the car.

"Are you sure you want me to do this?" I asked before I exited the car completely.  She just waved her hand at me in dismissal.

It took a bit of work until I remembered that I still had the travel bag that Shannon had given me in my pocket.  Was there some cleansing cream in it?  Yesss!  I used it liberally, then washed thoroughly with soap and water, and soon I was back to normal.  My eyebrows were definitely on the feminine side, but I found an eyebrow pencil in the travel bag as well and rubbed a little bit on the end of my forefinger. Smudging it gently over my remaining eyebrows gently seemed to do the trick.  I let out a sigh of relief.  I was looking almost like my old self again!

Yet?  At the same time there was a certain amount of regret?  I was going to take the bustier off, but figured it was too much trouble getting those little fasteners undone.  I could struggle with it better back at the house.  There was even a little regret at the thought of giving it up – for some reason, I'd started to enjoy the restricted feeling it imparted.  I gave myself one last look in the mirror, squared my shoulder and rejoined Carole.

"Hi uncle Ron!" she greeted me. Big smile just like before.

We drove along and I started getting to recognize some of the area and knew we couldn't be too far from the house.  All of a sudden, she stopped and did a quick 'U' turn then drove into a sort of open courtyard.

"This is  where my trustees office is," she explained. "I saw Miss Manter's car parked, so think it might be a good idea to go in and introduce yourself.  Maybe make an appointment to meet with them all?  And bring up the point that maybe we shouldn't have to meet with them weekly?"

"Okay Carole.  I'll try" I said enthusiastically ( Was that a flash of the ice lady I saw in her eyes for a second?  But I must have been wrong, because she smiled happily and thanked me).

"Aren't you coming in? I asked.

"No uncle.  It's probably better if I don't" she said.

I shrugged and went in.

Only Miss Manter of the law firm was there working with her secretary. A very pleasant, attractive  lady in her late thirties, early forties, she greeted me warmly after I introduced myself, and we chatted for a short time, her asking me about my trip and what I thought of Felton.  Getting a little nervous about leaving Carole in the car for too long, I asked for an appointment and was delighted to find that there was time available for me two days later.

I also brought up the point of the necessity for the weekly meetings now that I was available.  She smilingly agreed that they were probably not mandatory now that an adult male was available.  "You know? "  she said. "I don't want to sound like a sexist or that I'm against the young or anything like that.   But dealing with an adult male will make me, and my partners much happier.  Carole is as smart as a whip, very level headed for her age."  She smiled.  "But young girls can be so scatterbrained at times" she said,  "And we were just truly wanting weekly meetings to keep a tight rein on her.  Now that you're here?" 

She was smiling warmly, and  I got the feeling that she was coming on to me.  I was quite flattered. Maybe, I thought,  I could approach her for a date when I met with her and her partners  two days hence.  Smiling and shaking her hand, I thanked her and left.  Went back out to the car and preened a little bit when I described how I'd won the lady over.  Carole was effusive in her thanks, saying a number of times how secure she felt with a male around the house. I felt as if the previous embarrassments and humiliations had all been nothing but a dream.

With a sigh of relief I recognized some buildings I knew were close to the house, then we were on the street. Suddenly Carole let out an excited squeal. "There's Sandy!"  She squealed, sounding like a little girl.  "You'll have to meet her!"  With that, she drove up close to a woman and stopped.  Lowered the window and shouted out "Sandy! Sandy! Come and meet my uncle Ron!"

Sandy turned out to be a neighbor.  A very attractive blonde of medium build and a very pleasant demeanor. Her hair was short, almost like a cap.  I saw the tan that indicated more than just a little outside activity and the very fine lines around the corners of her eyes that indicated she was older than the mid twenties I'd originally thought.

What amazed me more than anything else was the quiet authority she exuded.  Wasn't forceful or anything, but Carole obviously adored her and acted almost like a little girl.  Sandy took this adoration calmly, and talked to Carole like an affectionate aunt. When she discovered that I'd just arrived the previous day, she warned me.

"Watch out for this one.  She can be a holy terror if you give her half a chance.  Her mother spoiled her.  She definitely needs a male presence and a little discipline."  She grinned a delectable grin. "Maybe more than a little?"

I laughed at this as if I thought it idle chitchat – and we talked for another few minutes before she excused herself – but not before Carole invited her to the house that night – about eight.  She smiled and accepted, but only on the condition that we attended a small dinner party she was giving the following week end.

Carole was so nice after we left Sandy.  Saw how sleepy I was and insisted I take a nap – she'd make dinner!  I gladly agreed, but only on the condition that I do the clean up and the dishes afterward. She gave me a large happy kiss for being so nice.  "I hate clean up!" she said.

I went to lie down. But couldn't get the bustier unfastened.  Finally, aggravated beyond endurance, I went and asked her if she'd release me. She laughed and threatened that she'd keep me prisoner in it if I didn't promise to behave.  I gladly agreed, and she set me free – but only after a struggle.  She did comment in a bemused way that the color really suited me, and I blushed for some reason.

I set the clock for an hour and was well refreshed when I awoke. Went and showered and shaved. (I didn't really need to, as I have a very light growth, and am practically hairless on my arms, body, and legs). Nonetheless I felt wonderful!  After I dried myself, I went to put on underpants, but on a sudden impulse went and picked a pair of satin teal-colored panties. They felt so wonderful on! I thought for a minute, then decided that as nobody would see them?  What difference did it make?  Put on my best pair of tan slacks and a good yellow sports shirt. Tan socks, nicely shined brogues, my best watch, and I was ready for whatever the evening would bring.  Whistling cheerfully, I went downstairs

And now for another few of Rosie's 'Bits'. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX#55

“Oh, do take your apron off,” Sylvie said, “It’s not so often that your mother comes to visit.”

“I’d rather not, honey,” I said.

“How about that,” Sylvie, my wife, turned to my mother, “To think I couldn’t get him to wear one for the life of me only months ago. Look at him now, just won’t take it off.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Jake, I know you’re a very helpful husband even if you don’t wear your apron all the time,” my mom said, “You don’t have to prove yourself all the time.”

My mind floated to my mother’s last visit and the same I felt when I had to wear that very same apron. Wearing it for Sylvie was one thing, but I was too ashamed to wear this feminine piece of clothing – no matter how practical I was told it was – in front of my mother. It looked just like a dress, I argued, with its full skirt that reached below my knees, with its full bib, lacy collar and even short, lace-trimmed sleeves. Funny, but I had to be threatened with a spanking to put it on whereas now, keeping it on was protecting me from further humiliation.

“No, it’s okay,” I said, feeling myself blush “I rather like it.”

“But you look all flushed,” my mom said, “How can you possibly say you aren’t hot under it?”

“He insisted on wearing this one specifically,” Sylvie replied, then turned to me again, “If you’re so insistent on wearing an apron, why don’t you at least put on that small one, the one my mother gave you last week?”

Generally, I’d love to put on that minimal, hostess type apron instead of the full one I was wearing as it was in fact getting hot, but I preferred to remain covered. Sadly, it was not to be.

“Martha gave you an apron?” my mom cooed, “Oh, I’d just love to see it.”

“I’ll get it for you,” Sylvie said.

“No, but…” I tried to protest, but she was already off to the kitchen.

“Just stop being silly for a second,” mom said and reached behind my back to untie the bow of my apron. I squealed and stepped back, though she did manage to grab a hold of my apron strings and it started to unfold. I succeeded in stopping it from coming undone and was halfway through retying it again when I realized I was only postponing the unavoidable and prolonging my agony. Hastily, I pulled it over my neck, bunched it up and threw it on the floor beside my bewildered mother.

“There, it’s off,” I said dryly.

“Dear God, Jake,” she said, eyes open in surprise, “Is that a skirt you’re wearing?”

“Yes, mom, it is,” I replied, “I’m wearing a skirt.”

“But why on Earth…” her voice trailed off.

I was beginning to loose my temper. I would even have preferred if she openly mocked me for wearing a skirt under my apron.

“Oh, for crying out loud, don’t act so surprised,” I said, “As if you hadn’t any idea.”

“But it was hidden by your apron,” she said, as if she was apologizing.

“Yeah, but my apron didn’t hide my nylons, did it? Or these high heeled shoes? The sleeves of my blouse?”

She kept staring at me without a word.

”Jesus, mom, look at me. I’m even wearing makeup. How come you’re so surprised to find me wearing a skirt along all that?” I asked.

“I assumed you had some sort of shorts on,” she said, “I mean, it would explain why you’re wearing pantyhose. I thought maybe a pair of shorts would be more comfortable for housework than full length pants.”

“Oh, this skirt is comfortable enough, I’m not complaining,” I said, “Though what about the shoes? The blouse? And the makeup?”

“I did wonder about the shoes,” she said, “And the blouse does seem a bit dressy just for housework, but excuse me for assuming you were just trying to look nice for your mother. The makeup goes with the territory, I guess, when you’re stuck with wearing your wife’s old clothes.”

“My old clothes?” Sylvie laughed in astonishment, “You mean you haven’t told her?”

“Told me what?” mother asked.

“I’ve been buying him new clothes for almost three months now,” Sylvie replied, “I thought he’d have mentioned something.”

“But if you have your own clothes, why aren’t you wearing them?” my mother turned to me.

Shamefully, I dropped my gaze to the floor.

“I am,” I said.

“But then why…” my mother’s voice trailed off.

“Everything your son is wearing, Jane,” Sylvie chirped, “His own. Or, better said – her own.”

“Her?” my mother repeated.

“Well I can’t really keep on referring to her as ‘him’ when he’s wearing skirts, can I? Turns too many heads,” my wife said.

My mother stared at us in astonishment for another moment.

“I’m sorry, but just what on earth is going on here?” she said finally.

“Oh come on, Jane, I’d expect you to be the least surprised of all the people,” Sylvie said, “It was your idea after all, to sell Jake’s clothes when he lost his job. Seeing how he only wore pricy designer stuff, we made quite a hefty sum on eBay. And remember how it turned out that we could sell almost every item of clothing he owned? I offered to get some cheaper outfits off eBay to replace the ones we sold, but it was you that persuaded me to give him my old stuff.”

“Old jeans and sweaters. I meant unisex clothes,” my mom interjected, then pointed her palm at my direction, “Not this.”

“Last time you saw Jake, he was wearing a pair of my pants that zipped up at the back, a blue silk blouse, nylons and mid heeled open toed shoes,” Sylvie retorted, “and I don’t remember you complaining much. If anything, you complimented his full apron.”

“I assumed he was just trying to look nice for my visit,” mom defended herself, “Given the fact he had only your clothes to choose from, I thought he did a rather good job. As far as the apron is concerned – it was very practical of him to wear one. Of course it did look feminine, but the fuller an apron is, the better it protects the clothes.”

“Of course it does,” Sylvie said, “

XXXXXXXXXXXX#56

The transition was gradual and with the fashion nowadays, how could I really tell if my son was actually wearing women’s clothing or just following the latest trends. Only when I recognized the hound’s tooth pattern of the material showing under his jacket sleeve did I realize he was in fact wearing his wife’s blouse. The pantyhose was another puzzling discovery, but like before, I didn’t raise the issue. Times are changing, I suppose, and if men are waxing their bodies now, well, what’s another small step in the feminine? To tell the truth, at first I thought he was just wearing ankle socks made of a different material, and never paid no mind, really. I did wonder about the colors but you know – who am I to judge. I never caught more than a glimpse between his pants and his shoes, but these glimpses seemed to rise higher and higher up his leg until one day I got a very good view of his nylon shod knee popping out between his soft leather boot and his gray checkered shorts. Not even knee highs would have reached that high up his legs. I was surprised, of course, but at the same time, it seemed awkward to comment after having passed so many opportunities by then.

What would I say, anyway? ‘Are you wearing pantyhose?’ when it was patently obvious that he was, and had been for some time, though at the same time he seemed to be very discreet about it. As I said, only glimpses of nylon. But then again – wasn’t I being rude? My son was beginning to become dressed more nicely than he ever had been before and I never as much as said a single word to let him know that I at least acknowledged the change in his looks? I didn’t want him to think I didn’t care about that at all – something I started worrying about when I realized I had ignored the fact he was wearing a blouse I praised so highly when I had seen it on his wife not a month ago.

As if sensing my predicament, my son made it very easy for me when I visited them next time. This time I could catch more than a glimpse of his flower-patterned pantyhose between his loafers and his blue silk capris.

Not only did I commend him on his choice of pantyhose, but I also said I liked his bracelet and his necklace. I probably should have stopped at that point as I could see him grow uncomfortable but I though he was just being modest, so commended his capris and his white sleeveless blouse too. He blushed and when his wife came up behind him and put her hands on his shoulders, almost jumped with fear.

Trying to diffuse the awkward situation, I made what I believed was a humorous observation. Seeing how his wife – in her black leggings and black high heeled boots, wearing a black wide-necked sweater that exposed her broad shoulders – loomed above him, I jokingly suggested that he too should wear high heels, to catch up with his wife. My son was used to my sense of humor and chuckled with me, albeit nervously, whereas his wife took me seriously.

“Go on,” she merely nodded after our laughter subsided.

I watched in astonishment as my son scurried off and returned a minute later, now three inches taller on account of his white court shoes. At that point I sensed that something was amiss, but not wanting to put my son in any more embarrassing situations, I didn’t know how to approach the subject.

After that, I was more reserved at commenting his looks, though he seemed to be quite comfortable in his wife’s blouses and pants. I did still say if he was wearing something I found becoming – especially if I had remember commending it when worn by his wife – but tried not to be too indiscreet about it. Even though I could see the ruffles below his neck, I wouldn’t comment on his blouse until he took of his jacket. Or no matter how diaphanous his blouse was, I didn’t comment on the lacy camisole he was wearing underneath.

My daughter who had come to visit after a lengthy absence had pointed out that her brother had become quite the feminine creature, though at that time, I felt as if she was just teasing him. I became so used to his new image it didn’t strike me the least odd to see him drop his handbag on the couch then sit down crossing his legs and display his high heeled shoes to me. Then again, you probably don’t see many men wearing pantyhose and polka dot blouses.

Still, I can’t say I was prepared for my birthday dinner. It was a small event, I had only invited my daughter and my son and his wife. I think I’m not exaggerating if I say that my daughter didn’t recognize her own brother – nor would have I if his wife hadn’t led him through my door. His brown hair had been painted jet black, his eyebrows that had always been on the delicate side were now twin sharply pronounced thin arches. His cheeks were reddened, his eyelashes thick with mascara, his lips glistening red. The thing that surprised me the most – though it really shouldn’t have, as his sister pointed out – is that he was wearing a dress. A very pretty one too, a strapless black silk creation with a long, pleated full skirt that spread around him prettily when he sat down.

I really was at loss of words and when I commended my son on his pretty dress, remarking that I don’t remember seeing his wife wear it before, she replied that the dress was my son’s own. It was a tumultuous evening for all of us. My daughter accused my son of being a sissy. When – upon being asked, how his workmates looked at him wear women’s clothing – he confessed he quit his job in order to stay at home, she became really angry with him for squandering the college education she was deprived of. As for me – I certainly didn’t appreciate him ruining my birthday party with this little surprise of his, no matter how pretty his dress was. It was only at that point that someone came to his defense, when his wife explained that he didn’t have much say in the matter.

However our passions cooled down eventually and the evening ended very pleasantly. The very next day, my son appeared at the door again, dressed in a cute red tartan skirt and a red short sleeved sweater and without much further ado started cleaning up my house. This was his – or better put, his wife’s present to me. Not that he would just clean my house once, but each week from that day on. I could tell he was struggling at first but after two months he became proficient enough and extended his services to his sister who moved back to town. She wasn’t too comfortable with her brother swishing around her in skirts and dresses but with his homemaking skills at her disposal, she soon gotten used to it and even donated a bunch of her old clothes to his wardrobe.