Forgive me. Us retired folk often screw up the days. I finally remembered this blog late last night - then promptly forgot about it until now.
Does look though that it's in good hands - what with Belinda and Kammi. Thank you sissies!
I don't have much of any importance to say. Do have a few cartoons that Dave Bishop has been kind enough to send me. One is of a cartoon that he did many years ago - and a recent re-make. Frankly, I think of them both as being excellent. I'm pretty sure that he'll appreciate anything nice you have to say.
Must admit to having a real bug up my ass with Smashwords. Don't get me wrong, I really used their manual - it was MUCH better than Lulu's when I starter publishing my books - but their Customer Support? Must be a daughter or something. Bloody pathetic. Maybe one of you guys can help?
My problem is this. Lulu publishes okay. Smashwords do as well. But Kindle? Blows them both away in sales. I really can't understand why this seems to be the case, when Smashwords publish to iBook - which is quite large as I understand it. What I don't understand is this. When I publish a book in Smashwords (as well as Lulu and Kindle) I'm asked to categorize it. The only things provided that make sense are "Fiction - Erotica - Male Erotica". I then add 'tags' such as "dominatrix, cross dressing, transvestite, sissy, sissies, male submissive ".
But when I go to iBook - I simply cannot find my bloody books anywhere - unless I search by putting one word from a title - THEN I can find any of my books that contain that word. Bloody stupid if you ask me. It may be the fault of Apple - but I wrote Smashwords to ask WHY their categories don't match iBooks. You should have seen the nonsensical reply I got. That woman hadn't READ my e-mail - I'm sure of it. (I managed a Customer Support group for a large Corp before I retired.) I'd have fired her ass so quick she'd have burn marks on her posterior.
Please don't get me wrong. Smashwords provides a marvelous help in most things - but their Customer Support sucks.
But my apologies - sometimes I get on a soap box and don't know when to shut up!
Now for my serial.
Now for a wee bit of Rosie?
Does look though that it's in good hands - what with Belinda and Kammi. Thank you sissies!
I don't have much of any importance to say. Do have a few cartoons that Dave Bishop has been kind enough to send me. One is of a cartoon that he did many years ago - and a recent re-make. Frankly, I think of them both as being excellent. I'm pretty sure that he'll appreciate anything nice you have to say.
Must admit to having a real bug up my ass with Smashwords. Don't get me wrong, I really used their manual - it was MUCH better than Lulu's when I starter publishing my books - but their Customer Support? Must be a daughter or something. Bloody pathetic. Maybe one of you guys can help?
My problem is this. Lulu publishes okay. Smashwords do as well. But Kindle? Blows them both away in sales. I really can't understand why this seems to be the case, when Smashwords publish to iBook - which is quite large as I understand it. What I don't understand is this. When I publish a book in Smashwords (as well as Lulu and Kindle) I'm asked to categorize it. The only things provided that make sense are "Fiction - Erotica - Male Erotica". I then add 'tags' such as "dominatrix, cross dressing, transvestite, sissy, sissies, male submissive ".
But when I go to iBook - I simply cannot find my bloody books anywhere - unless I search by putting one word from a title - THEN I can find any of my books that contain that word. Bloody stupid if you ask me. It may be the fault of Apple - but I wrote Smashwords to ask WHY their categories don't match iBooks. You should have seen the nonsensical reply I got. That woman hadn't READ my e-mail - I'm sure of it. (I managed a Customer Support group for a large Corp before I retired.) I'd have fired her ass so quick she'd have burn marks on her posterior.
Please don't get me wrong. Smashwords provides a marvelous help in most things - but their Customer Support sucks.
But my apologies - sometimes I get on a soap box and don't know when to shut up!
Now for my serial.
Part
4
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
Carole
greeted me pleasantly enough, but seemed distracted. I asked her why and she
admitted that she always got a little nervous when company was coming. I went and gave her a hug. Assured her that everything would be just
fine! She smiled wanly, "I just
would like everything to be perfect when my friends meet you" she said
quietly, and my heart went out to her.
She just seemed so young and vulnerable at times!
She
had set the table very nicely and we had dinner shortly after I got there. It
was very pleasant, but there was a lot of food. Soup, salad, salmon entrée with
three different vegetables, dessert, then coffee with a liqueur for me along
with crackers and blue cheese.
"Good grief! Carole! I'll be doing dishes until midnight!" I joked.
And
the ice maiden was back!
"You
promised!" She snapped, glaring at me. "You said you
would. Now are you going to whine? I can't stand whiners!" And she made as if to stand up!
Petrified
with fear, I stuttered abjectly that I had only been joking. I was extremely sorry, and that I didn't mean
a word of it. That I'd be glad to do the dishes, all of them. That the dinner had been so wonderful that I
was glad to say my thanks in this way. I don't remember all that I said, but it
seemed to work. I breathed a huge sigh
of relief when the 'other' Carole returned and sat down in her chair.
She
started chatting again as if nothing had happened. About six thirty, she said "Uncle Ron? I've got to go and get
ready. Now I want you to do something
for me, okay?"
"Certainly,
my dear. What is it" I said (dreading whatever awful thing she was going
to visit on me now).
"I
want you to relax. Sit a while and enjoy
your liqueur and your coffee.
Okay?"
This
girl had dumbfounded me again!
"What time are your friends due?" I asked.
She
shrugged. "No particular time. It
isn't anything formal. That reminds
me. Let me look you out an apron for
doing the dishes, okay? But I want you
to promise that you'll take it easy for a while before you start?"
"Sure
Carole, I promise" I said.
It
wasn't too difficult to keep that promise.
After she laid an apron across the back of one of the chairs and made a
smiling farewell, I lolled back in my chair, taking my time with an occasional
sip of my Drambuie, chased by a sip of coffee – and picking lightly at the
remnants of a very good meal.
Just
about dead on seven o'clock, the doorbell rang and I went and answered it. Four young ladies were standing there – one
of them Shannon. "Hi uncle
Ron!" they all called in
unison! "You're finally here!
" and one by one they came and
hugged me and said how nice it was that I had finally got there, and introduced
themselves – all of them except Shannon of course. In order, they were Anne – a brunette, lithe
and athletic, Doris a blond – quite
tall, Elaine – another blonde, also
quite tall and Shannon, the red-head of course.
What surprised me was that they were all quite elegantly dressed – I'd
expected something a lot less formal.
I
apologized for the state of the table in the dining room and said I'd clear it
up after I had made them drinks. I took
their orders after I'd placed their handbags in my room, then went to the
bar. Nothing would do it though, but
they had to join me while I poured.
There was a great deal of chattering going on all around me, with Doris
constantly changing her mind with regard to what drink she wanted, and the
others teasing her unmercifully. They
were all so nice, asking my opinion on everything under the sun. So respectful and nice. I bloomed like a
flower. A masculine flower of course
I noticed that Elaine seemed to be the odd man
out, so tried to make sure she was brought into the conversation more. She liked this, and soon began becoming more
comfortable in my presence, ending up draping her arm around my shoulders,
laughing at all my quips and jokes, and treating me like an old pal! I was having a great time!
We must have chatted for almost a half hour. I'd found out
that other than Sandy, this was the whole group, so figured that, as they'd
seen the mess in the dining room anyway, there was no hurry. A few times I halfway decided to start the
clean up, but got distracted. Then
Carole appeared again, and I was in trouble.
She
came walking into the living room where we were all congregated, and
immediately got all sorts of teasing remarks about living with a man – and
pretending he was her uncle. He was far
too young to be such a thing, she had herself a sex toy – that's what it was.
She laughed and joked with them and came and gave me a big hug. Then she happened to glance into the dining
room. I saw her body straighten up and
she turned towards me.
"Cecilia! Why haven't you tidied this mess up? What
have you been thinking of! I have guests here and you let them see this . . .
this . . disaster!"
Elaine
hadn't seen who Carole was talking to, and looked around saying "Who's this Cecilia? Where is she?"
I
licked my lips, all of the enjoyment dissipating fast.
"Carole? I'm very sorry. Honest!
I kept meaning to . . ." And
yowled! Carole had hold of my ear lobe
again and was pulling me in toward the dining room, raising some startled
sounds behind me - which soon were
followed by amused noises - from my
erstwhile friends and companions.
"Get
your apron on you lazy girl!" Carole was storming at me. "Get this
damned table cleaned off!"
And
to a chorus of wolf whistles and raucous comments from the girls, I put on the
extremely feminine apron, white gauze, with colored tulips embroidered into the
bib. Carole tied a large elaborate bow
in the back then gave my ass a whack and told me to get a move on. Totally humiliated, I scurried away from her
and started hauling all the dishes into the kitchen.
I
cleared off the table quickly. I'd have
been quicker, except I was called into the living room to serve up more drinks.
At someone's suggestion, I had to start
curtseying when taking orders or delivering drinks. After that, I escaped into the kitchen. Then Elaine came in and started helping
me. I was terrified that Carole might be
upset and said so. She just shrugged.
"Carole's my friend, but I do what I want to do. If she don't like it? Screw her!"
This
only increased my shame. Okay, Elaine was boyish in a certain way, and she was
a bit bigger and younger than me, and a
little bit heavy, but she was still just a girl! . Even there, I felt belittled as she seemed
perfectly willing to take Carole on, whereas I couldn't. I started to snuffle a
little in my humiliation. My feelings were in total disarray when she came and
put a strong arm around me. "That's all right sweetie," she said "Don't worry. But lets get these dishes done, huh? You can
have a good cry later."
We were just finished when I heard a noise from the other
room. It sounded like a song, but I couldn't make out the words, then realized
what I was hearing – the opening line to the old Simon and Garfunkel song, but
with different words and being repeated over and over, getting louder all the
time:
Cecilia, you're wanted in here!
Cecilia,
you're wanted in here!
Cecilia! You're wanted in here!
"You'd
better hurry by the sound of it," Elaine suggested.
Wiping my hands on my apron I hurried into the
living room. I hadn't noticed, but one
of the straight back chairs from the dining room had been moved into the
center. Carole sat on it, the wooden
paddle she'd purchased that day in her hand.
Smiling a terrible smile.
"Come
to Carole, Cecilia," she purred.
"And we can try this new paddle, huh? Take your shoes and socks off."
"Aw,
please Carole." I said. "Please don't do this?"
"Please
take your pants off. If you don't? My friends will take them off for you. I'm
going to give you ten good whacks for being so inconsiderate."
"But
Carole? Honest? I meant no disrespect. Honest!
It's just that the ladies came and.."
"I think Cecilia is
arguing with you Carole. I'm surprised
that you stand for that Carole!"
Ann said, laughing.
"But
I'm not standing for anything!" Carole laughed. "I'm sitting – WAITING!
"Why
don't you add one more for every five seconds he takes?" Anne suggested,
laughing. And she and Shannon and Doris
began looking at their watches. "And, and, and, and ONE MORE!" they
yelled. "And, and. . ."
I
kicked my shoes and socks off , unbuckled my belt and dropped my pants and
draped myself over Carole's knees as quickly as I could, before I could incur
another 'penalty' stroke.
Unfortunately,
I'd forgotten my choice of underpants.
"Look
at the pretty Teal panties!" Shannon shouted. "Gee Cecilia – you sure
do like that color!" And all of the
girls came around to see my panties, giggling and laughing about what a sissy I
was, and giving me soft pats – almost caresses - on my satin-clad rump..
I
gritted my teeth. I knew I was going to
be spanked. Could see now that nothing
was going to stop Carole from doing it. But this was IT! I would show them! No tears from now on! I hadn't demonstrated my masculinity up until
now. But BY GOD! NO MORE TEARS!
The
spanking wasn't actually as sore as the first, but by the fourth hit I was
squirming and pleading and weeping copious tears, pleading, pleading, pleading
for her to stop. By the last, I was just
lying there, totally subjugated as the girls all clapped and cheered and did a
reverse count down:
…FOUR! THREE!
TWO! ONE! – ONE PENALTY STROKE –
TWO PENALTY STROKE! And then a concerted
groan as Carole finished.
I
was allowed to get up, then given to Shannon. To more ribald comments, a collar
was put around my neck, and I was led away like the possession I was. Tears of
shame and physical hurt dripping from me.
She
was quick. Cool water was put on a washcloth
and I was told to hold it there.
Gratefully I did so, because she was doing something to me that I truly
didn't want to see.
My
shirt was cut off my back. "Don't think you'll be wanting this anymore she said scornfully,
tossing the remnants into my bathroom wastebasket. She laughed when she saw how hairless I was
on the chest, but was happy that I didn't need to be shaved there.
"I'm glad Suzie used that indelible ink marking
you" she told me. Makes this much
easier – and she was applying my breast forms to me, carefully lining up the
edges to Suzie's marks..
I
rejoined my companions some while later – wearing a creamy white satin, French
maid's uniform with matching flounced capo and apron to match, a froth of
petticoats, trimmed with blue ribbon peeking out from the under my skirts. My breasts were uplifted right up out of the
décolletage and I had a very sexy
cleavage, enhanced by my lacy bra.
Shannon had also practiced her craft on me, making me up while
chastising me for the puffiness under my eyes – as if it was MY fault for
goodness sake. But even I had to admit that she transformed me into an
almost-pretty girl.
And,
as the girls all sang the old Stevie Wonder number 'Isn't she lovely, Isn't
she…' a knock came to the door.
"Marvelous!"
Carole said. "An opportunity for you to let us see how nice a maid you can
be Cecilia. Don't forget to curtsey
prettily to whoever it is. We'll all be
watching you now . . ."
And
they all crowded behind me as I opened the door, and curtseyed to Sandy.
She
looked at me pityingly. "Oh dear" she said. "I did warn you, you know." Then she came into the house proper and
greeted all the girls. As Carole greeted her, she leaned forward and whispered
something quietly in her ear. Carole
simply shrugged and called for the other girls to join her in the living
room. "Sandy wants to talk to
Cecilia" she said. "Girl to
girl!" then laughed. The other girls drifted off with her. Leaving
me to face Sandy alone. She stood
waiting patiently, but I could not lift my eyes to meet hers, I was so ashamed.
"Ron?"
she said quietly. "Please? Look at me.
I know how humiliated you must feel but if you'll listen? Perhaps I can help you find your way back to
your manhood. Would you like that?"
"Oh
yes miss Sandy!" I said fervently – and promptly ruined my words by
dropping a deep curtsey!
She
smiled understandingly. "Look
Ron. I know that Carole is a very
willful and confident girl. But that's
all she is – a girl! You are a
man. Presumably stronger then
her. Presumably smarter than
her! You must stand UP to her. Fight for yourself! Be a man!"
I
shifted uneasily, feeling my dress and petticoats move around me. Just a fraction, mind you,
but enough to remind me that although Sandy was talking about being a man, she
had no idea of what I'd have to face if I antagonized Carole. I think that
about then, she saw the fear on my face and relented. Put a comforting arm
around my shoulder and gave me a nice squeeze.
"I'm sorry" she said. "I didn't want to make you uncomfortable. You'll do what you're comfortable with, I
guess. I shouldn't even think of interfering. I won't embarrass you again. Why don't we go and join the rest?"
It
was obvious that Sandy was a great favorite of all of them, so after we
re-joined the group, a lot more drinks were called for, which kept me busy. I
gradually found out that Carole was regaling everyone with the saga of
'bringing me on board'. There was some
discussion of a pony race that everybody seemed to consider hysterical, but as
I only caught snatches of conversation, figured it was of no consequence to
me. I'd also have my ears pierced, she
told them. It turned out that I was to be Shannon's property for the whole
beautification process, she would be responsible for my appearance during all
of this period. At this, Shannon held up
her clenched fists like a prizefighter, while everybody cheered. Even Sandy joined in, I noted sadly.
Sandy
pleaded old age and left before anyone else. Just before she made her final
exit, Carole drew me aside and explained what I had to do, and what the
consequences would be if I failed.
Terrified I caught Sandy in the hallway.
"Miss
Sandy? May I come and assist at your
party next weekend?"
She
shook her head negatively. "I'm
sorry Ron. . ."
"Please,
don't call me that miss. My name's
Cecilia now. But PLEASE let me be a
serving girl next week? Miss Carole is
adamant!"
"Ah! I see.
So it's 'Miss' Carole is it now – Cecilia?"
Shamefaced,
I nodded.
"Very
well. Are you going to bring a
uniform? If you are? I'd rather you wore a less flashy one
please? Ask Carole and make sure she
doesn't mind. But if you don't have
another? The one You're wearing will do,
if push comes to shove. Goodnight Cecilia."
"Goodnight
miss Sandy" I said gratefully as she left.
But
once she left, things started getting a little wild. Everyone had been drinking
fairly steadily, and kept me busy acting as a cocktail waitress. Elaine had started to become a bit of a pest
after I'd appeared in my new dress, obviously enamored of me, coming up and
hugging me, caressing my breasts, once or twice even running her hand up my
skirts. To tell the truth here, I probably made a mistake.
I
had been the butt of mockery and sarcastic remarks for what seemed like weeks,
with everyone scorning me as if I was wearing women's clothes voluntarily. Now,
here was a girl treating me kindly. Okay, admittedly, she was treating me as if
I were another girl and she was a boy, but at least she was being pleasant
to me! I may have wiggled a little bit when she was looking at me, and I may
have giggled when she put her hand up my skirt. And what was I to do when she
came up behind me and nuzzled into my neck.
Sure, I stood still and maybe even smiled as I crunched my head over to
the side in pleasure. Who wouldn't? I think I may have even put my arms around
her neck when she kissed me a couple of times – but it was just harmless fun!
Then
I made the mistake of slapping her hand away when she got a little too
forward. Carole noticed this and called me
aside.
"Cecilia? These ladies are my guests. If they want to have a little fun with
you? Please indulge them. Understand?"
"But
she's putting her hands up my skirts, miss Carole. Treating me like a girl" I complained
weakly.
"Well? If she wants to? That's what maids are for darling. Now?
Are you going to argue with me?"
"No
miss Carole, but, . ."
She
shook her head impatiently.
"Elaine?" she called out.
"Cecilia would like a private word with you?"
Grinning
inanely, Elaine came over and put her arms around me and gave me a kiss.
"You're
SUCH a cutie! Wanna talk to Elaine honey?"
"Yes she does.
She's just too shy to admit it.
Isn't that so, Cecilia?" Carole said.
"Yes
miss," I said quietly.
"That's
a girl!" she said nicely "Why don't you and Elaine go over into that
nice dark corner and talk?"
A
few minutes later, I was sitting helplessly in Elaine's lap as she fondled and
kissed me. Gradually, I started
surrendering, settling further and further back into her embrace and putting up
less and less resistance. I sensed
someone coming over to where we sat and placing something on a table
there. Some little time after that, a
finger was probing inside my panties and touching my anus.. At first, I was very uncomfortable, it was
quite sore. But then, somehow, it felt as if it was lubricated, and then it was
two fingers gradually working their way into me – and they WERE lubricated, I
could tell. I writhed and pleaded, but
she was giggling quietly now as her fingers probed deeper and deeper.
My
eyes were glazed, but all of a sudden I could see that we had an audience! All
of the girls were standing around, glasses in hand, smiling a little at my
predicament. I tried to ask for help,
but Elaine's mouth closed on mine, and I submitted again.
"I
think Cecilia's in love" I heard somebody say.
"Yes.
Think you're right," I heard Shannon reply. Then "Hey! What about a ceremony!"
There
was a gasp of agreement, and I heard Carole say. Shannon?
You get her ready. I'll make a
call!"
I
didn't know what they were talking about, but was greatly relieved when they
pulled Elaine off me. She was pretty
truculent about this, but Anne whispered something in her ear that must have
pleased her, because she smiled widely.
Shannon led me away, then redid my makeup. I started getting an awful idea of what was
going to transpire when she removed my maids cap, then pinned a circlet of flowers to my hair -
which had a wedding veil attached to it!
She
removed my apron then sat and talked to me quietly for a while. I was
frightened, but she assured me that it was just a game. Not to worry.
Then I thought I heard someone at the door. A few minutes later, Ann came into the room,
giggling and bringing a bunch of plastic flowers. "Sorry!" she
laughed, but this was the best we could come up with." And she placed them in my arms. "They're here" she told Shannon,
then darted back out of the room again.
"Showtime
dear" Shannon laughed, then pulled my veil down over my face and, linking
her arm in mine, led me back down the hall into the living room to the sounds
of the girls singing "Here comes the bride"
End
of part 4
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX#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, “
XXXXXXXXXXXXX56
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.
3 comments:
This sissy loves your stories and your site I used to read your stories years ago
Thanks for uploading Dave's cartoons Bea. As usual they are brilliant combining humour with our special interests not easily done.One of the best artists around.
Carrie
Dear Bea,
I'm writing to thank you for your posts and your site. I heard that you may not be feeling well and want to send my best wishes for your soon and complete recovery.
For all, I read this weekend a NY Times article, "What's So Wrong with Boys Who Want to Wear Dresses." Excellent article and, I think, fits me. I recommend googling it and reading it. Or send me an email and I can send the PDF.
I also recently read a book by Anne Vitale, "The Gendered Self" where she describes a 'diagnosis' (she's a psychologist) called "Gender Expression Deprivation Anxiety Disorder" (GEDAD, although I prefer 'Gee... Dad' :-) Fascinating and progressive stuff. Maybe in 50-100 years some or all of this crap will be behind us. We'll be able to be and do what we want to, from an early age through adulthood. I dream of that.
Best,
Marie
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