In Part One, Barb caught Kyle masturbating to a lingerie advertisement. Out of embarrassment, he began to rant against girls’ clothing, with the implication that it was so boyish, so unisex, that there was no way he could have been aroused by it. Barb is disturbed by his sexist language and arguments, and has difficulty figuring out how a mother who had once dressed her son in panties and tights could have produced such a male chauvinist. She fears for his life, so reckless has the fourteen-year-old become. And so, she capitalizes on his desire for a moped (a type of motor scooter) to propose a deal: if he wears girls’ clothes for a month, then he can get the moped. He makes the deal on the understanding that he can choose the clothes. He figures he will be able to find a masculine look, just as long as he wears sweatshirts bulky enough to hide the bras his mother adds to the deal. Kyle sees an easy win; his mother hopes that somehow the knowledge that he is wearing girls’ clothes will tame her boy.

Anything for a Moped? — Part 2 by: Dawn De Winter
Chapter Two: Who Knew at the Mall?

"Take it off. You’ll have to take it off."

"Do I have to, mom? This is so embarrassing. Can’t you just measure me with it on?"

"No, you’re going to have to take your shirt off if I’m going to get an accurate measurement for your bra. If you don’t want to do it now, you’ll just have to do it in the store. Your tee shirt is much too loose. Off it goes."

Kyle started pulling his Black Sabbath tee shirt over his head. He couldn’t believe that he was doing it. This was unreal. His mother had a tape measure in her hand and she was about to measure him for a bra!

Yesterday he’d thought that the most embarrassing thing that could possibly happen to a young teen was to have his mom catch him masturbating. But jeez, this had to be worse. Could anything be worse for a guy than to be measured by his own mother for a bra?

If there was, he couldn’t think of it — that is, until he realized, a drop of sweat forming on his brow, that it might be even worse to have your mother see you wearing a bra. Or worst of all, to have the guys catch you in one at school!

He gulped: "What have I got myself into? Is a moped worth it? Is it worth having to go around in a bra for a month? And what about the panties? Sure, they’ll be no different from boys’ underwear. I’ll see to that. But what if there is some telltale sign? Nah, there won’t be any problem. They’ll never see the panties. So they’re not going to be a problem for me — not unless I get lucky with a girl. Then I’ll have a problem."

Kyle sighed: "I should have such a problem. I’ve never gotten lucky with a girl." And then the oddest notions came unbidden into his head: "If I could get into a girl’s panties, I’d even let her see me wearing panties. If I could unhook her bra, I’d let her unhook mine too."

"What crap," he thought. What kind of girl would want to see a boy in a bra or panties? Something like that would gross out any girl worthy of tongue-kissing."

Kyle was so absorbed in these strange speculations that he had absent-mindedly obeyed his mother’s request that he kick off his sneakers so that she could verify their size. And he was slow to react when she turned over the waistband of his boxers to check his waist size. As usual, the waistband stood proudly on display above his belt.

But he responded quickly to his mother’s comment: "Just as I thought, Kyle, the boxers are much too big for you. Your panties will have to be a size smaller if they’re going to fit you snugly."

"Your panties? You mean my panties? Mom, you just talked about your son wearing panties. That is so incredibly gross. I’m never going to wear panties. I’m never going to wear a bra. You can keep your moped. The deal is off. It is," he loftily said, "extinct."

"In that case, young man, you’d better start hoofing it to school. You’ve already missed your first class. I don’t envy your arriving late, yet again, without a valid excuse. I imagine that you’ve earned some major detention time."

"What do you mean without a valid excuse? Mom, you told me," he whined, "that you’d tell them that I had to stay home today with a high temperature, with a fever."

"But you’re not staying home today, Kyle. You’re going to school because you cancelled our shopping expedition. Do you take me for a fool? Do you Kyle? You don’t think I see through your scheme? First, you make all sorts of outrageous statements about girls’ clothing being something that any boy could safely wear, if he chose, and then when you figure you’ve gotten my goat, then you propose a phony deal: that you’ll wear girls’ clothes secretly for a month to prove how unisex they are."

"And I promised you a moped if you kept the deal. Well, I don’t think there ever was an honest deal. You were just having some fun with your old Mom, gullible Mom, and trying to dupe her into allowing you to play hooky. Well, the jig is up, young man. Off to school you go — and without an explanatory note. I’ll not play your game any longer. Let us see how clever your vice-principal thinks you are."

"But Mom," Kyle pleaded, "I have to have a note. You’ve got to give me some sort of reason for being late or I’ll be put on the truancy list. If I get on that list, I could get switched to the losers’ class for homeroom. I need to give the school a reason for being late."

"All right, Kyle, I’ll write the note. And, since you don’t think you have to keep your word about going shopping, I’m not going to lie for you. We’ll tell them the truth: to wit, that you and I were going to go shopping because you wanted to stock up on girls’ lingerie, but that you subsequently changed your mind. How’s that for a story? It’s the truth, right?"

"You can’t be serious! If I had to give the vice-principal a note like that, I might as well kill myself. My life at high school would be over!" he wailed.

"Come on now. You’re over-dramatizing," Barb said. "You’d be a one-day wonder. They’d probably stop talking about your being a sissy the moment you risked your life on another fool stunt."

Kyle doubted it: once a boy became known as a sissy, his social life was defunct. The computer nerds and the fat girls might befriend him; but no one else would even eat with him.

His own gang would, moreover, be the first to turn against him. They were hypersensitive to sissies; his buddies could smell a fairy one hundred yards away. It was amazing, Kyle reflected, how many sissies his buddies had already detected at the school.

He weighed his options: he could go to school with a note from his Mother saying that he liked to wear girls’ clothing. Non-option! Second, he could go without any sort of note. But that would get him into a heap of trouble, and a lot more than his mother appreciated.

During the past year, her record as a stalwart of the Parent-Teacher Association had slipped, as she had become distracted by her campaign to save the prairie dog from extinction.

She had, as a result, not had the opportunity to learn that Kyle had been intercepting and forging her name onto several advisories about his recent performance and behavior in school. Kyle knew that he was very close to being relegated to the "social promotion" homeroom. He could not risk another suspicious absence.

Obviously, his third option was to forge his mother’s note. But he had never done more than fake her signature. He wasn’t sure that he could write an entire note, especially as his mother was known to be an educated woman who could both spell immaculately and compose a grammatically correct sentence. Kyle wished he could do either.

No, the second and third options were non-options. He needed his mother’s cooperation. He needed her to write that he had been ill, or that he had seen the doctor that day, or anything sensible — anything that did not mention that he had changed his mind about wearing panties to school.

Wearing panties to school — that was his fourth option. And the more he thought about it, the girls’ clothes looked more and more like his only realistic option. Sure, he’d be taking a risk in wearing them. But Kyle relished risky business.

"It will be a cool joke on everyone," he thought. "There I’ll be dressed entirely in girls’ clothes, and no one will know. I’ll fool them all." With a moped waiting for him at the end of the yellow brick road, he was willing to dress like Dorothy. Or rather, he was willing to dress like a modern-day Dorothy — one in drab, unisex clothes. No ruby slippers or pinafores for this boy!

The Wizard of Oz was practically his favorite movie of all time. Images of its characters in drag now tickled his fancy — of Dorothy cross-dressed as the scarecrow, of the Tin Man as the wicked witch, of the Grand Wizard as a munchkin baby in pink nightie and bonnet, of the lollipop guild strutting about in the pink tutus of the lullaby league, and of Dorothy, once again, this time as Glinda, the Good Witch of the North.

"How odd to think just now of Dorothy dressing up as Glinda," the boy muttered. "What’s so funny about that? A girl dressed like a woman? Where’s the joke? Big Deal!"

Kyle might have thought it a big deal had he been able to retrace his train of thought. It had begun with his conceit of himself as a modern Dorothy, one dressed as a boy, on the way to Oz to ask for a moped. The fantasy had ended, however, with Dorothy dressed as a beautiful redhead, garbed in a six-foot wide dress of pink sequined chiffon, with diaphanous puff sleeves, in a towering glass crown on her head, and a fairy wand in her hand. Where did Kyle end, and Glinda commence?

It won’t do, thought Kyle, to finish my fantasy with Dorothy wrapped in lace and satin; and so he tried to imagine the Cowardly Lion as a man. But he couldn’t do it. "There’s no way," sneered the boy, "that sissy could ever become a man."

Just then Barb returned. She had gone to find her purse. If he were going to attend school today, he’d need his lunch money. She offered a five-dollar bill to Kyle. No fool, he took it before asking, "What’s the bill for? I don’t need any lunch money today."

"What do you mean, Kyle? You are not going to stay home. That’s a non-starter. You must go to school today."

"Can’t I go shopping with you instead?"

"Shopping? What sort of shopping? In what part of the store?" Barb asked, as she interpreted Kyle’s smirk as a sign that they were indeed headed to the girls’ department.

"Well, you know, to the girls’ part."

"And what will be buying for you, Kyle, in the girls’ part of the store? I’d like a short list."

"Well, you know — tee shirts, socks, jeans …"

"And?" Barb pressed.

"And underwear."

"By underwear, you mean your bras and panties, right, Kyle?"

"Yeh, I guess."

"Kyle, just so we don’t waste our time and my money today, I want you to promise me right now that you will wear all the girls’ clothes we buy, including panties and bras, for an entire month, starting the moment we get back from the store. Agreed? Do I have your word?"

"I swear it. It’s cool."

Barb hustled Kyle out of the house, into the car, and into the girls’ department of Sears before he could change his mind, yet again. Their first stop would, in theory, be their easiest — jeans and pants. Its salesclerk was a gum-chewing, flirtatious teen. "Chelsea’s my name," she breezily said, "and what’s yours?" she unexpectedly asked Kyle.

He hesitated, then prevaricated: "Uh, Dirk. My name is Dirk."

"And is this your mom, Dirk? Is she helping you to shop?" Chelsea giggled.

Kyle’s cheeks reddened like a cheap tart’s. Both the women noticed, Chelsea’s eyebrows rising in surprise. Barb came to her son’s rescue: "My son … Kirk always gets embarrassed when I drag him along shopping, this time on behalf of his twin sister … Kyla. She needs some clothes, and he’s helping me to pick them out. Isn’t that sweet of him?"

"Kirk, or is it Dirk? I didn’t quite catch your name. Is Kyla an identical twin of yours, the same in every respect?"

The teasing upset Kyle sufficiently that he blurted out: "My name’s Dirk. Duh, we’re not identical twins. That should be obvious to anyone. We were just born at the same time."

This explanation might have sufficed, had not Barb been saying simultaneously that her son’s name was Kirk.

With a huge smile, Chelsea turned to Kyle and in a voice dripping with honey and venom asked, "Well, Kirkdirk, should we start with some jeans? We’ve got some boot cut Levis here that would, I dare say, look good on either you or your born-at-the-same-time, not-quite-identical twin Kyla."

Chelsea looked him over, rather archly, then added, "Judging from you, Kirkdirk, your sister has a 26-inch waist. Here, why don’t you try these on? The change room is over there?"

"Mo-o-o-m!"

"Chelsea, it’s Chelsea, right? We’re not buying clothes for my son. They’re for my daughter. Do you understand? As for you, Kirk, stop fooling around. Why on earth did you tell Chelsea that your name is Dirk?"

He shook his head, then mumbled, "Just joking, I guess."

Chelsea was unfazed. She told Barb, "Of course, madam. I was just thinking that we’d have better luck getting the size right if Kirkdirk — oh sorry — if Kirk tried the jeans on for his sister. The change room is over there."

Barb turned to Kyle: "Son, would you be willing to try the jeans on to help out?"

"No way. Ask me that one more time and I’m out of here."

"That’s okay, madam. Boys are shy in this department. They’re terrified someone will think the clothes are being bought for them. Isn’t that silly?" She whipped out her tape measure, and before Kyle could react, had lassoed him with it.

"Yep, Kyla must have a 26-inch waist, and since she’s unlikely to be very hippy, these 14G jeans will suit her best. If she were a bit more mature, we’d need a 16G to handle her hips. But then she doesn’t appear to have much in the way of hips."

Chelsea kept up this patter as Kyle bought two pairs of Levi jeans, two pairs of tan-colored, cotton cargo jeans, and a pair of charcoal-gray carpenter pants, and finally, a pair of khaki tan corduroys, with five pockets and a slight flare on the leg.

All six were, as Kyle hoped, passably male, as were seven pairs of cotton socks. The hooded fleece outwear also seemed male enough. The color — light blue — wasn’t cool, Kyle sadly noted, but at least its front zipper, neutrally placed, did not take the side of one gender in the fashion game.

Despite Chelsea’s ribbing, Kyle was gaining confidence that he could pass as a male in girls’ clothes. When he discovered that there were plenty of tee shirts, short- and long-sleeved, in white, in black and in earth tones, he cracked a big smile. Several fleece shirts, crewneck, with jersey knit sleeves and a zip front completed his "look."

As she surveyed the growing pile of clothes, Barb decided that Kyle was going to look like a tomboy. She made a mental note to herself to remove any telltale labels, but she had to admit that Kyle was right: There were lots of unisex tee shirts and jeans.

As Chelsea observed the exchange of signals between mother and son, she had no remaining doubt that Kirkdirk was going to be wearing these clothes. "How odd?" she thought. "I always thought that cross-dressers went around looking like Vegas showgirls. I never imagined they might buy this kind of unisex stuff."

She decided that she’d have to look more closely at the labels on clothes worn by the men she met, to make sure that she didn’t accidentally date a cross-dresser.

"But would that be so bad?" she wondered. "Wouldn’t it be kinky to have sex with a boy who looked 100% male, even though he’d bought everything in this very department?"

With a malicious chuckle, she decided she’d buy her kid brother some girls’ jeans for his next birthday. "Would he be able to tell?" she asked. "Wow, what if he couldn’t? What a hoot if he actually wore them to school!"

"Back to business — I have to close the sale with this sissy first." As she rang up the clothes, she joked about their unisex look: "Madam, is it wise to go shopping with your son? Kirk seems to have talked you into buying some really masculine-looking clothes for your … daughter … Dyla. Oh well, a bit of perfume and the right lipstick and makeup will do wonders. Kirk, I’m sure, will help you pick out some suitable scents and shades. Won’t you, Kirk?"

He grunted. In fact, Kyle had nothing to say to Chelsea. He hoped never to talk to her again. As they headed off to footwear, Kyle grimaced as he heard, faintly, a whispered goodbye from Chelsea: "Farewell, sweet Kirkdirk. I do hope you like your new clothes."

Barb and Kyle did not spend long in the shoe department, for he made it clear that he could easily find the same $150 sneakers on the girls’ display tables, as on the boys’. To save money, she agreed that he could wear his own shoes to school. That put a sock on the deal.

Lingerie was quite another matter, especially as Chelsea had found an opportunity to whisper her suspicions to its clerk, Melanie, while Barb and Kyle were browsing through shoes. Melanie also had a playful streak: Advised that Kirkdirk was, inexplicably, selecting the drabbest clothes he could find, she was determined to help, as she later told her girlfriends, "the little fairy to grow his gossamer wings."

Melanie figured that a boy, any boy, even a boy who secretly craved to cross-dress, would be anxious to spend as little time as possible wandering in public through girls’ lingerie. He’d think everyone was looking at him, and that everyone considered him a pervert.

So Melanie decided to take her time, as act as though Kirkdirk wanted to spend his entire morning browsing through girls’ underclothes. Her plan was to steer him through the areas with the most lavender, baby blue and pink, with the most silk, lace and satin.

As though deaf, she would act as though the twin sister actually wanted to be ultra-feminine, and to wear slips, half-slips, garter belts and nylons. She would even make sure they’d linger at the breast prosthetics for women who had surgery. "By God, he’ll see it all. I bet the little sissy gets an erection."

The plan went off without a hitch, especially after Melanie began to act merely confused — she lamented that they had changed the location of everything during her vacation. She was certain that the plain, full-cut cotton briefs were somewhere around here. Maybe over there, you know, on the other side of the teddies and sheer sleepwear.

At each stop, Melanie insisted that Kirk feel the material: "Now Kirk, if you’re going to help your mom shop for your twin sister, then you’re going to have to be less shy about touching the fabric. Your twin sister is going to want her slips to be silky smooth. Isn’t that soft? Good, you agree. Do you think she’d like it?"

No, Kirk didn’t think that his sister Kyla would like any of the slips or stockings, and had no interest in any of the pastel colors, and especially not in shades of pink.

And yet Kirkdirk seemed to like the clothes. To her amusement, Melanie noted that his fingers lingered longer and longer each time she asked him to test an undergarment for softness; and the fingers were even beginning to caress the material. To her dismay, Melanie couldn’t discern whether he was getting sexually aroused, for his pants were simply too baggy.

"It’s too bad that Kyla doesn’t like pink satin," Melanie reflected, "for Kirkdirk seems quite drawn to that bra."

"That satin bra is part of a bra-and-panty set. It’s just $25 a set, a bargain really. Should I put aside a couple of pairs for Kyla?" Melanie coyly asked.

Kyle dropped the bra as though his fingers had been stung by a wasp. Both women tsked-tsked as it fell onto the floor. Embarrassed, he went on the attack: "Mom, I’m fed up with shopping for clothes for Kyla. I want to eat."

Barb knew she’d never get Kyle back into the lingerie department, and so she insisted that they finish their shopping first. However, she knew they’d have to speed up: "Kyla, I’m afraid, only wears cotton, and only drab colors. It’s a pity, isn’t it, that modern young girls don’t like to dress up in frills, satin and pink? Alas, they want to look so masculine."

They found their way to the section where Kyle could buy a mix of high-stretch white, black and gray sports bras by Hanes, Jockey and Klein, as well as matching cotton panties.

As Kyle was in quite a hurry, he didn’t pay a lot of attention to the cut of the panties: some were high-cut, others bikinis, still others boy-leg. As all of the panties had a male counterpart, he considered them masculine enough, though perhaps he should have taken the time to throw out the two panties whose waistbands proclaimed them as being designed "for girls."

Melanie stalled. She wasn’t going to ring up this sale until Kirkdirk had bought some brightly-colored panties. He became increasingly agitated as she made small talk with Barb. He wanted out of there! When Melanie saw that he’d agree to almost anything just to get out of girls’ lingerie, she sprang her trap.

Blocking Kyle’s path to the exit, she said, "These Jockey briefs are especially popular these days. They’re very masculine-looking, for as you know, blues and the greens are men’s colors. Still, when one puts two shades of blue stripes together or two shades of green stripes together, I suppose they’re feminine enough — or at least they’d look feminine on a girl with the right hips. Given her rather masculine taste, I bet Kyla would love these briefs. Do you agree, Kirk? The blue and the green would, I think, cap off your shopping."

Desperate to leave (his bladder was now adding to his woes), Kirk nodded yes, and uttered not a peep as Melanie added the companion bras to the pile, as well as, without really asking, a two-toned orange panty-and-bra combination.

Kyle would have rejected it. Indeed, he was rethinking the purchase of any color that wasn’t black, white or gray, but he was sidetracked by Melanie’s next suggestion, this time to Barb: "Madam, as you know, panties cannot be returned. It would be a shame to buy all these nice outfits and then not have them fit your daughter. Now you say that Kirk and Kyla are about the same size. Why not, then, have him try on one of the Jockey-brand bras and panties for fit?"

Melanie then shoved the black Jockey combo at Kyle and motioned towards a curtained room — "You can change over there. Give me a call when you’ve put on the bra and the panty, and I’ll be right over to check the fit."

"NO way!" he rasped to Barb, "There’s no way I’m not going to let some saleslady see me in a bra!"

Barb knew he wouldn’t change his mind, but she did worry about the cost of the lingerie he’d selected. Sure, they’d measured him that morning for a bra, but she’d forgotten her notes at home. And besides, he had seemed then to come between two sizes — between a size 14 and 16.

She had been unnerved to see the bills mount. There was too much money at risk to be thrown away if he couldn’t wear any of the bras, if none of them fit. It really would be best, she thought, if he could actually try on a bra before they bought the lot.

"Melanie, given Kirk’s attitude, I think I’m going to have to take one of the bras home to fit his sister. She’s been growing a lot of late, and I am no longer sure what fits her. So why don’t you ring up one of the bra-and-panty combos and I’ll take it home for her to try on. Meanwhile, could you set aside the bras and the panties that we’ve selected? I assure you we’ll be back for them before the day is out."

"Yes, I’m sure," jeered Melanie silently. "Just as soon as Kirkdirk can try the bra on for fit — and probably for his jollies as well."

She then said to Kyle and Barb, "The orange combo is the most in demand. I’m sure you’ll be taking that, as it’s too popular for me to set aside. I’ll ring it up immediately for you." And so she did.

It was, therefore, a two-toned orange bra-and-panty set that Kyle took with him into the men’s washroom at the adjoining mall. His mother was waiting nearby with their many purchases.

He was embarrassed to be carrying girls’ underwear with him — never mind wearing it! — and he was still smarting over his most recent embarrassment: A woman had glared at him after overhearing his mother’s whispered instructions on how to put on the bra. Kyle heard not a word of instructions after he noticed the woman’s glare.

Locked in a toilet stall, Kyle first emptied his bladder. He then kicked off his shoes, and dropped his jeans and boxers onto the ground. Half naked, he rushed to put on the panties. In his haste he tangled his left leg in the wrong opening and fell with a thud against the adjoining partition. More haste, more waist-adjustment as he put the panties on backwards. Finally, he got it right with the help of the label.

Downward he looked, anxious to see if the panties looked manly enough. Yes and no. Yes, aside from the sissy color, there wasn’t anything about the panties that yelled out "girl’s underwear."

Yet there was something not quite masculine about them. For one thing, their high cut showed off a lot of leg — a lot more skin than a hairless fourteen-year-old boy would normally expose.

A man, Kyle reflected, wanted to show off his hairy legs, but the legs of a young teen — about as hairy as an eggshell — were best kept under wraps. After all, hairless thighs were — Kyle had to admit as he stared at them — rather feminine.

Even more unnerving was the sight of his pubes — the cut of the panties seemed to accentuate how little pubic hair he had yet grown. Indeed, his whole groin was dismayingly feminine-looking, for the tight knit of the panties compressed rather than displayed his male genitalia.

"Jeez, I can hardly see my dick," Kyle confessed, as he hurriedly rearranged himself to give it more prominence. Even then, the panties didn’t look quite male. He tried to figure what made them look so feminine. And that day he couldn’t puzzle it out.

Only later did he realize that none of his friends and none of the jocks wore bikini briefs. They all wore boxers. His body therefore looked very odd, even abnormal, because his underwear seemed designed to cover as little as possible. Fourteen-year-old boys normally tried to lose their scrawny physiques and unwelcome erections in loose-fitting clothes.

Off went two layers of boys’ shirts. Then came the sports bra. As he struggled with it, Kyle wished he had listened more to his mother’s instructions. It took a while to figure out which of the three holes was designed for his head, and then he wasn’t sure whether he should step into the bra, pulling it up the length of his body, or pull it down over his head.

After a couple of false starts, Kyle finally had wiggled into the bra. And then for the first time in his life the boy looked down at his bra. For the first time he felt a bra strap on his shoulders. He twisted and turned, trying to see how the bra and panties looked from behind. He wished he had a mirror.

He was astonished by how feminine his body now looked, even though the unpadded sports bra added no more than half an inch to his bust. As he gazed at his orange lingerie, his white athletic socks suddenly seemed impossibly incongruous. With the toes of one foot, he stripped the other of its boyish cover; and then, vice-versa.

As he removed his socks, he had a Proustian rush: Into his mind surged an image of a much younger Kyle refusing to wear his boys’ slippers whenever he was wearing his superheroine underwear. Briefly, he wondered: "Did I actually want to wear that Pocahontas, Catwoman stuff?"

Before he could summon an answer from either the child’s past or the teen’s present, he inadvertently caught sight — for the first time — of the hole bored through the metal partition. It was an eye-width in diameter. It permitted, he now noted, the occupant of one toilet stall to spy on his neighbor.

"Gosh, I’m the neighbor and I’m standing here in this sissy gear. Has anyone been watching? Gosh, I hope not. I’ll die of frigging shame."
Kyle bent down to look more closely at the spy hole. As his eye neared it, it made unmistakable, unblinking contact with another eye. Kyle had eyeballed enough girls to know that the eye was doing more than merely staring at him. Yes, it was definitely leering.

Kyle blinked. Then he heard a disembodied voice whisper, "You’re real pretty, sweetheart, in your panties and bra. Did you shoplift them? I bet you did. Can I come over to your stall? You’ll love it. I know how to make you feel like a real woman."

Kyle was speechless in horror.

"You know you want it, honey. There’s no risk if we’re careful, if we’re real quiet. You’re so pretty in that outfit, my little sweetie. Just blow me a kiss, and I’ll come right over to treat you like a woman."

"Buzz off, you disgusting pervert, or I’ll call for the cops."

Kyle didn’t have much more to say, as he was concentrating mightily on getting his sweatshirt, tee shirt, pants, boxers and sneakers back on, and his bra and panties back underneath and out of sight. The faster he tried to get dressed, the more he fumbled with the clothes.

The man spoke: "You’re right, honey. It’s too risky here. But I know a private place. I’ll meet you just outside the washroom. You’ll know me, little girl, by my eyes."

Then Kyle heard the stall door bang open. Then the door of the washroom banged shut. The boy seemed to be alone.

Kyle didn’t know what to do. Was this creep really waiting for him just outside the washroom door? Kyle blocked the spy hole with a wad of toilet paper, and then sat on the toilet, not knowing what to do next. He waited and he waited.

He waited for what? He wasn’t quite sure; but he did know that there was no way he was going to leave either the stall or the washroom until he knew for sure that the creep was no longer lurking about.

Barb became alarmed as the minutes clicked by. Alarming questions began to plague her: "What’s keeping Kyle? Where is he? Why hasn’t he returned from the men’s washroom? How long can it take a boy, even a clumsy one, to try on a bra? What if he met someone, someone who isn’t nice?"

Worried, she sought out Hank, a security guard, and asked him to check out the men’s washroom. "My son Kyle has been in there a really long time. Maybe he’s been sick or …. Please tell me he’s all right."

Hank headed over to the men’s washroom, taking time only to shoo a middle-aged man in tennis shoes away from its entrance. "If I see that weirdo one more time near the washroom, he’s history," the guard muttered. Inside, he found the room empty, but one of the stalls was suspiciously locked.

Why suspiciously? Because there were no feet to be seen. Nor was there any sign or sound of movement.

Hank banged noisily on the stall door, scaring Kyle half to death. "Come on out of there, Kyle. Your mom’s really worried about you. It’s time we got you back to her. I think we both know why you’re lurking in there, don’t we son? And I’m going to have to tell your mom some of the truth — for your own good."

The guard continued as they exited the washroom: "Look, son, I know what goes down in public washrooms, ‘specially this one. Let me tell you–there are lots of better, safer ways to make some money. Why don’t you try flipping burgers? It’ll pay less, but son, it’s honest, decent work. Don’t sell your body and soul for a play station."

They soon found Barb. Hank didn’t take long to wipe the joy from her countenance. "Lady, did you know that your son — Kyle’s his name, right? — that your son Kyle has been loitering in the men’s room? I didn’t find him standing, innocent-like, at the sink or a urinal. He was hiding in a toilet stall. You understand what I am saying, lady?"

Barb wasn’t sure: "Hiding? Do you mean he was in danger?" Then she turned to Kyle to ask, "Were you hiding from some rough boys? Was someone after you?" And then to Hank: "Did you see the ruffians? Were you the one to chase them away?"

Kyle shook his head dumbly. There was no way he was going to talk about his experience until Hank had gone away.

And so, Hank had the next word: "Lady, the only one I saw, other than Kyle here, was one of the lowlifes who loiter in the public washroom in order to pick up men and boys for …. Well, I can’t bring myself to say the word, lady, in front of a female personage such as yourself. But you must know about what I’m speaking, ‘specially on account of what your son likes to do."

"My son likes to do?"

"Lady, I don’t presume to tell you how to raise your son. But it’s my job to stop men and boys like Kyle from loitering in the washroom. I’ve got to observe the decencies."

"Yes, but what has that to do with Kyle?"

"A lot, lady. I suggest you get him one of them hippotherapists, and maybe Kyle can be saved. Maybe it’s not too late. After all, his wrist seems straight to me. If the therapy don’t work, then you’d better get him into one of them queer groups. Then he can find another boy like himself, someone he can date. That way he’ll stay out of trouble."

"A boy Kyle can date?"

"A boy I can date?"

"Yes, lady. Look, Kyle, you’re going to get into a heap of trouble hanging out at the toilets. Lady, I’m not saying Kyle’s doing it yet, but you should know that teenage hustlers hang out at that washroom. Men like the creep I found hanging out at the doorway would pay Kyle twenty, fifty bucks for a blowjob."

"Now, I’m certainly not suggesting that Kyle has done anything improper. I’m sure if you checked his pockets, you’d find them empty. But lady, given the sort of boy he is, you know — the queer sort — he should avoid temptations."

"Are you intimating that my son is gay and that he sells his body for sex?"

"Lady, I don’t know what "intimading" means. I’m just inferring a few things to you. There are facts of life, and it never pays to bury your head in the sand like an Australian when there’s danger near. I’m just saying your son should look for girly boys at one of them places reserved for his kind of folk. That’s all I’m saying."

And with that, Hank tipped his hat and walked away, puffed with pride that he’d tried to help the little queer. "He’s lucky I found him. Jack would’ve demanded half the money he’s making, as well as free sex." Yep, some security guards were more virtuous than others.

As Hank strutted off, Kyle finally deemed it safe to talk: "Mom, I’ve got to tell you what really happened."

"Hush, Kyle. Not here. It’s time for lunch. Let’s find a quiet corner of a restaurant, one with a bit of privacy." (With a lot of privacy," Barb gloomily thought.) "Then we can have a heart-to-heart, son-to-mother talk. I can see we have lots to talk about. Lots."

As they walked to the least popular of the mall’s restaurants, Kyle was unusually silent. Indeed, he was too mortified to speak. He could not fathom the morning’s events.

All he had done was to put on panties and a bra for the first time — just to determine what size they should be. It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal. But what happened then? Everyone started acting like he wanted to dress as a girl! "Talk about stupid people!"

"Those girls’ clothes must be cursed," he decided. "The very instant I got that bra around my chest, a pervert magically appears in the next stall. It was like some genie was out to get me."

"The creep actually thought I wanted to be treated like a girl and that I was dying to have sex with him! With him! With another guy! Aargh!"
"Next that rent-a-cop shows up and he has the nerve to accuse me of being a prostitute! And he didn’t even see the bra and panties! He must have smelt them! What must mom be thinking?"

Kyle looked every so often warily in her direction, each time using just the corner of his eye. He was so embarrassed he didn’t want to look into anyone’s eyes, least of all his mom’s.

What was Barb thinking? She was rehearsing, over and over, the speech she intended to make as soon as they had settled into the restaurant.
"Should I just come right out with it? Should I just say, right out, ‘Son, if you’re gay, that’s fine by me. You’re my pride and joy. You’ll always be. Your boyfriends will always be as welcome in our home as your girlfriends would have been, had you had any." No, that last line didn’t come out right. She’d have to work on it.

She wished that their chat could stop at the subject of gay pride. But there was obviously a lot more to talk about: "How am I going to ask if he’s been hustling? How do I ask my teenaged son if he’s been selling his body to dirty old men?"

And there were even tougher questions to ask, for it appeared that her son might not only be gay, not only hustling, but also be a transvestite. Or at least he was a cross-dressing wannabe. After all, he had already tricked her into buying him his first girls’ outfits! And at this very moment he was wearing both a bra and panties — and in the most feminine colors he had selected, to boot!

"Oh My God," Barb fretted, "As soon as he got into girls’ lingerie, he started peddling his body to strange men in a public washroom! What kind of future will he have?"

Barb had to wipe her brow, as she heavily perspired at that thought that Kyle’s future might be even worse than the dread present: "What if Kyle’s a transsexual? Don’t tell me he’s a transsexual too!"

Visions of samba-dancing Brazilian she-males flooded into her head. Naked but for their tutti-frutti hats, they were advertising their wares for the "gentlemen" prowling for sex in the Bois de Boulonge. "Oh my God, is Kyle destined to dance in Paris?"

Barb shuddered at the prospect. She was being shaken to her liberal core by these nightmares. How much was she going to have to accept? Did she have the strength to accept Kyle for whatever he really was?

As she looked guardedly at her son, she thought, "Is it possible that a boy who looks so macho will end up a homosexual, transvestite, transsexual prostitute? Can you be both homosexual and transsexual? Can a transsexual truly cross-dress? Doesn’t it all cancel out?"

"I’m raving, absolutely raving," Barb concluded. "How can I help Kyle if I don’t calm down? I’ve got to keep telling myself that he’s probably just a gay boy who wants to put on a dress. I can handle that. I’m not a castrating mother. I’m sure he’ll never want to cut anything off."

If Kyle had known all the thoughts that were whirring through his mother’s head, he probably would have thrown himself in front of the first moped he saw — in an attempt to be run over by it, putting an end to his misery.

Fortunately, Barb was so overcome with emotion when they finally sat down at the restaurant that it was Kyle who spoke first. Barb never got a chance to perturb them both by voicing her darkest fears.

"Mom, you’ve been looking at me strangely ever since that dumb security guard told you I was gay. You didn’t believe him, did you? How could you? No one is straighter than me. No one. I’m a 100% American boy. There’s nothing queer about me. I like girls — a lot."

"Don’t use that word, Kyle. You know I don’t like it." But she was secretly relieved that he had used it. "Maybe my boy’s not gay after all, and if he isn’t gay, well then …."

The dancing Brazilians turned into marching Marines.

Barb had to know for sure: "Kyle, if you’re not gay, then why did that man say you are?"

"Because he found me hiding in a toilet stall, mom!"

"Isn’t that a bit suspicious, Kyle?

"Only if you have a dirty mind, mom," he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "I was hiding from a pervert who was watching me through a hole in the wall as I changed into the, er, the new clothes. He thought I was a sissy just like him. And he told me he was going to wait for me outside the washroom. I didn’t dare go out there, mom. You understand why, don’t you?"

"If that’s true, Kyle, then why did the security guard not only say you were gay but that you were hustling? You’ve got to tell me the truth, Kyle. The truth I can always handle, but never a lie. The truth, young man."

"I guess he thought I was hustling because men pick up boys in that washroom. Jeez, mom, if I had known that sort of thing happened there, I would never have used the cruddy place. Do you think I’d have taken off all my clothes and then gotten into panties if I knew a creep was watching me? I thought the washroom was empty. And safe."

"Why didn’t you tell the guard about the man who watched you undress?"

"I didn’t get a chance. He judged me guilty without even asking me for my story."

That sort of prejudgment really upset Barb, as Kyle well knew. He now had her back on his side, and after a bit more explanation, she finally capitulated: "Okay, okay, Kyle I believe you’re straight as an arrow. And I am sure you’d never prostitute yourself."

"You seem more certain, mom, that I wasn’t trying to sell my body than that I’m not queer."

"Kyle, stop using that word. It’s just too early to know for certain what your sexuality is. You’re only fourteen, after all."

Barb was just trying to say that it wouldn’t matter to her whether Kyle was gay or not. After all, gay didn’t seem very exotic when compared to the "Brazilian" scenario.

But Kyle understood her to be challenging his masculinity. So he practically shouted — certainly loud enough for the passing waitress to hear — "What possible evidence could you offer even to raise the slightest, remotest possibility that I might be queer?"

That word again. He was asking for trouble.

"Well, Kyle, most "queers" wouldn’t have a girlfriend, would they? You don’t have a girlfriend, right? And a queer, Kyle, would probably find a way to get into girls’ underwear. And there you are. Kyle, I’m sure you’re very straight, but be careful: Someone might call you a ‘queer’."

Kyle was taken aback. He wasn’t sure which was worse — the creep thinking he wanted to get a blowjob, the security guard thinking he was selling blowjobs, or his mother implying that he might want to give a blowjob for free!

When threatened, he always counterattacked, starting with a blatant lie: "It’s not true that I don’t have a girlfriend. I’ve got one at school. It’s not cool to bring your girlfriend home. If you do that, everyone calls you a momma’s boy. But I’ve a girlfriend, all right, and she’s phat."

"She’s fat? That’s not a nice thing to say. Young man, stop insulting people."

"Aw, mom, my girlfriend’s not fat, she’s cool. She’s phat, spelled with a ‘p’."

"So when do I get to see this phat friend, spelled with a ‘p’?"

Kyle needed time to produce a girlfriend for his mother, and so he gave himself a solid month: "You’ll see her as soon as I get my moped."

"Which brings us, Kyle, to the subject of your undergarments and of the several shopping bags of clothes waiting for us in the girls’ department. What’s the real deal with the panties and bras? You do know me well enough, Kyle, to realize that if you want to wear lipstick, makeup and skirts, then it’s all right by me. You’ll still be my son even if you look like a girl."

Kyle saw the waitress straining to hear them talk. Then she winked at him. Yes, she definitely winked at him! This conversation had to cease.

"Mom, I am not trying to look like a girl," he whispered. It’s the exact opposite. I want to look like a boy, no matter what I’m wearing."

"Sure, sure, even when you’re in a dress," he thought he heard the waitress murmur. There — it happened again. She had definitely winked at him!

Kyle played his trump card: "Promise to buy me a moped, and then you can return almost all the clothes we bought today. You’ll come out ahead in money, and you’ll then know for certain that I have no desire, none whatsoever, to wear this" — and then he tugged at his bra strap.

"No, we’ll stick to our original deal. If you want the moped, you’ll have to wear the clothes we’ve already bought, and the underclothes we’re about to buy. That’s the deal. Now stick to it."

There wasn’t much point in letting Kyle off the hook, Barb decided. Whether he loathed, or loved his bra and panties, they still had the potential to tame him. "In any case," Barb reflected, "it will be fun to see Kyle in panties again."

"Does the bra fit? How about the panties?" Barb now asked. The waitress sniggered as Kyle sullenly muttered, "They’re fine. Can we change the topic?"

They could, but not for long, for soon, after a quiet, almost sullen lunch, they were back in the girls’ department, to Melanie’s immense amusement. Chelsea was there too, apparently on her break. She gave Kyle an exaggerated wink. At his insistence, they rushed through the purchase of his lingerie.

As mother and son headed off with two bags filled with his panties and bras, Kyle cringed as he heard both salesgirls blow him an exaggerated kiss, as Melanie called after him, "Do come back, sweet Kyla. Next time we’ll get you into white lace and pink satin."

"This store will never get my business again. Never, never, never again," growled Kyle.

Barb told him to calm down. As she hadn’t heard Melanie’s last remark, she wondered whether he was protesting too much. "What’s the story with that boy? What is it?" There wasn’t much conversation on the way home from the mall. Kyle pouted. Barb mused.

When they got home, it was Barb who broke the silence, for as she took his new clothes out of the shopping bags, she noticed that they were not quite as unisex as they had first seemed. The cargo pants, for example, zippered on the wrong side, the girl’s side, and one of the jeans had, she noted, a plaid hem on each pant leg.

"Now how did he miss that," Barb wondered. "I guess he’ll be able to cover up the zippered fly with his shirttail. And I think I have some cowboy boots that could hide the plaid. But these panties are going to be a problem for him."

"Kyle, the waistband of this panty announces that it’s ‘Jockeys for girls’, and this one says it’s ‘Hanes Her Way’. Didn’t you notice the waist bands?" The last question revealed her newfound suspicion — that Kyle somehow had maneuvered her into enabling him to cross-dress; whereas, she had originally thought she was the grand manipulator. And always had been.

His reaction persuaded her that the purchase had been made in haste: "What!! The waistband tells people they’re panties! I can’t possibly wear them. No way!"

"Relax, Kyle. The stitching is subtle. I noticed it because I had your underwear actually in my hand. No one else will notice it. You didn’t notice it, right?" Again, the suspicion had surfaced — the one that had been gnawing at her ever since the security guard had made his allegations.

Kyle finally calmed down when she reminded him that he normally wore his shirts long, down to his crotch, and could continue to do so. No one would see his telltale waistbands. When he finally calmed down, she risked and got another tantrum by telling about the giveaway zipper and the plaid hems. This time it took him a full half hour to stop venting and hyper-ventilating.

They spent an odd evening. Kyle did some homework in front of the television. Every so often he looked over at his mother, busily removing labels from his girls’ clothes. "Thank God, mom noticed them," Kyle thought. "That was almost a disaster. And those brand names on the panties, and that damn zipper — I’m going to have to remember to wear my shirts long and my jeans high, even if does make me look dorky."

Barb meanwhile was enjoying the evening. The world was unfolding as it should. She could scarcely credit her eyes: A few feet away sat her son dressed, as she knew, entirely in girls’ clothing, from his socks to his bra. Sure, he didn’t look very ultra-feminine in his jeans, black socks and black tee shirt. But everything had been purchased in girls’ wear, and Kyle knew it.

Barb noticed, as Kyle fidgeted, that his bra strap occasionally came into view at his neckline. He’d definitely have to wear an additional layer of clothing, Barb reflected; and even then, he’d have to take care not to move about so vigorously that his bra shifted.

"Kyle, I can see your bra strap. You’re bound to expose it if you don’t learn to move about less boisterously."

"What? The strap is showing??"

"Yes, and it’s bound to show if you move violently back and forth. You’ll have to move more slowly, more gently, and more calmly."

"Do you mean I’ll have to move like a girl?"

"Well, if you want to put it that way — why yes. You’ll have to get used to moving your body more fluidly, with fewer sudden starts and stops. I’d also advise you against tossing a ball around, for the bra is bound to ride up, and then to show, one way or another."

It secretly delighted Barb to be giving this advice. Kyle had a stark choice: to move his body more femininely or to be exposed as wearing feminine underwear. The bra, she decided, had been her masterstroke: It was probably sufficient by itself to suppress Kyle’s animal spirits for a month. But for insurance, and for Kyle’s own security, she thought it best to remind him that he had to keep his trousers hoisted too.

"Kyle," she continued, "not only are you going to have to turning your upper body too quickly, but you’d also better avoid running about too much."

"What’s the reason now?" he moaned. "Are you trying to turn me into a sissy. Not run about? What should I do? Sit around the computer room like a nerd?"

"It wouldn’t hurt you to become more computer savvy. However, suit yourself. But if you run at the school, your girls’ jeans may — like the ones you normally wear — start falling down those narrow hips of yours. If that happens, the other kids might get quite an eyeful of your panties."

"I recommend slow, graceful movements, Kyle, if you want to get through this bet with your macho reputation intact."

He didn’t immediately reply because he was now standing at a wall mirror anxiously studying his appearance. Yes, there was the bra strap showing. And to his alarm, it didn’t take much of a tug to get his jeans down to his ankles. And then, you could see a flash of orange panty. With a shudder, he yanked up his jeans — so tightly to his body that his testicles hurt.

The rest of the evening went quickly, much too quickly for Kyle, as he began to dread the morrow. He now wondered if he had been a wee bit hasty in saying that no one could notice the difference between boys’ and girls’ clothes.

"Could they?" he asked himself over and over again. Though each time he replied in the negative, a knot in his stomach gradually tightened. He went to bed that night feeling mildly feverish.

Barb, overall, had enjoyed the evening. Just before she drifted off to sleep, she recalled the many pleasant occasions when she and Kyle had played together all evening, as the little boy pretended to be a superhero — a superman or a superwoman. Reveries of Joan of Ark, Mulan and Pocahontas flooded over as she began to dream.

Meanwhile, Kyle was lying in bed masturbating — as he had done almost every night since he had hit puberty. Out came the box of Kleenex. His mother, Kyle believed, had bought his story that a teenage boy needed a constant supply of facial tissue in order to clean his pores.

This time his fantasies focused on the girlfriend he now desperately needed to woo. It didn’t take him long to come: A girl on a moped was a powerfully erotic combination.

Once again, he had a troubling, recurring dream. This one began with his fantasy girl speeding by him on a Harley. As she roared past, he caught only a glimpse of her. All he could see was her raven black hair and her deerskin jacket. He had to see her face! So he jumped on his moped and put pedal to the metal. The moped was marvellously fast. Cheetah-like, it steadily overtook the motorcycle.

Eventually he got close enough to his girlfriend to see her face. How odd! It was Pocahontas, the Indian maiden, who was driving the Harley. Whoa! He was now overtaking her too quickly! He tried to brake, but the brakes failed. The moped rammed into Pocahontas.

All then blurred. He seemed to be dying because of the accident. There was a blinding, white light at the end of the high school corridor, and then a heavenly voice. It was the voice of God! And God sounded just like his mother! And what did God say?

"Go toward the light, sweet Pocahontas. There you will find peace."

Each time Kyle awoke with a start. "How strange," he thought after the third awakening, "to be frightened by Pocahontas."

To be continued — in part 3, "Who Knew at School?", Kyle will wear his new clothes to school.