A “first time” for being “discovered” is every boy/girl’s fear. The writings in this series are all genuine and true. This was my first time — on that brink. The cliff-hanger cut between two chapters is just “writer’s licence” to add some flair into what was, actually, terrifying!

Chapter 7

I stood motionless in my Mum’s bedroom. Careful not to make a sound. Praying that the door would not open. Praying that my nasty Brother would not come in and discover me. Me, his little bully-taker.

I was wearing my panties and bra. What would he make of those? He would love to tell Mum what I was up to when she was out of the house. I was wearing pantie hose and a pair of her sexy black strappy shoes — the ones with the heels. What would he make of those. He would make life misery for me.

The door between us wasn’t very solid. The catch was only a modern cheapo latch. It would open on a breath. I held mine (my breath that is). Dreading the urge to cough, I swallowed hard. There was a taste of sickness in my mouth. I was even brought to nausea at the thought of his finding me. The seconds that passed seemed like minutes. The minute or two that I stayed quiet seemed like an hour.

His footsteps went on down the hallway, towards his bedroom. “Little shit. Must be out somewhere…” I thought again — for I had thought this many times — what had I done to make him dislike me? My other Brother was a really nice guy. I looked up to him. But this one was always the “one in the middle”. My elder Brother was the guy I wanted to be like when I grew up. He was soon to be married. His fiancee was always nice to me, whereas the other Brother’s girlfriend treated me the way he did — contemptuously.

There had to be a way out of this situation for me.

Before I could reason with myself, I felt a wave of emotion run over me. Something I have felt several times in the years that have followed. How could I have got myself into this stupid, stupid situation? How could I risk being found like this? How would the people who heard about me react… I hated the thought, and more importantly, for the first time in my life, I hated myself.

Not for the spots on my face, or the fatty tissue that surrounded my stomach, or for the nervous way I dealt with other people, especially girls. I was a really dislikeable person. More than that, it was clear I wasn’t a good looking girl and never would be. Who was I kidding, standing there like this? Fucking idiot. I had to get this clothing off my back and get back into normality. I had to put those shoes of my Mum’s back immediately. And get those panties and pantie hose off…. Or the bra.. Which first? The shoes!

Call it damage limitation. The less I was wearing when finally discovered, the less explaining I’d have to do. “Well, I’ve done it for a dare….” No. “Well, I just wondered what it would be like….” No. “Well, I’ve got a part in a school play….” No. “Well, oh, Fuck!....” I tore at the pantie hose, laddering them a dozen times, I stuffed them into… Shit! Nothing to put them into! I took the panties off and put them with the ruined hose.

Then I tugged at the bra straps. In my haste, a strap pinged off, leaving me with one shoulder strap and the back strap. I tried to reach the back strap but failed….. I pulled and pulled, the straps digging into my flesh, leaving red marks that, even on their own, would take some explaining.

The bra was ruined too. The panties were the only survivors.

I listened at the door. No sound from along the hallway. Should I risk returning to my room. I had to. So, I did. The door closed behind me. Mum would never know I’d been in there….. or would she? Did I shut the closet door? Did I smooth the covers? Yes, I knew I’d done that much… Only time would tell, if at all. I crossed the landing hallway and entered my own room, shutting the door firmly behind me.

- ooOOoo -

Nothing ever did happen from that “close encounter of the third kind”. My Brother never knew. My Mother never knew. But I knew.

I knew that I was going dangerous things. It would be better to put these things away in the trash and forget about them.

But I could keep the panties, couldn’t I?

Life became deadly dull all of a sudden. I seemed to spend all my spare time playing records in my room or hanging about on the street corner with mates. Aimless…. At 15 years of age?

Reading this, you may have guessed my Dad wasn’t around the home a great deal. So my Mum was a much stronger influence on my life. I would have liked him to be around. There would have been questions I would have wanted to ask him. Not about sex, but about relationships. About what he would have done in circumstances that I faced every day. I did get to spend more time with Mum that I might otherwise have done. Being the youngest in the family.

Then again, would I have wanted to be the same? I knew from an early age that Dad was a wayward character. Odd comments about his behaviours before and after I was born revealed a lot. Why was I seven years younger than my brothers? Answer; Dad was “elsewhere”, with other ladies. “He always was one for the ladies”. Such like that told me he was selfish and quite a handful for my Mum. Now I thinkabout it… I was wanting a Dad, but not necessarily that one.

Could I talk to Mum about my feelings about liking girly things? Well, maybe one day… But the longer it went on, and the longer I grew, the less likely it was I could…

She was ‘gone 50’ by this time and beginning to be run down by an oppressive Mother of her own and a husband who worked, ate, slept, worked, ate, slept, went away, came back, worked, ate..…. Their younger days were different. We still have pictures of the pair in the late 1930s when they went to dinners in truly stunning outfits. Mum was truly a glamorous lady in those days.

- ooOOoo -

Back at school, I threw myself into boys’ games. My knees were cut to pieces as I played ball games like never before and injuries were commonplace. I didn’t spend quite so much time with the girls but it was interesting to see how welcoming they were when I did join them to sit and talk. Maybe I had some capital in life’s bank for the future.

By the time I was well past 15 years of age, I think it was, the memory of that nasty afternoon at home was fading. I still had the panties, and oh, did I mention the lipstick? No reason to throw that away really, was there? Not really. I still relished quiet hours when I could use it.

I was taken away on a holiday to Jersey, in the English Channel Islands that summer. My parents took me, but not my Brothers, to a holiday village ( which was ssooooo 1960s! ) for a couple of weeks. Meals all provided on site, no need to leave the campus, entertainment all provided every evening. The campus was nearly on a beach with golden sand. It had a pool too. Plenty of families like ours; some with two or three children. A few with loners, like I was. We slept in “chalets” (of which I had a “single berth” which was as small as the cupboard under our stairs at home!)… The chalets were all in rows, all the same.

I loved the whole experience. Why? Well, for the first thing, my parents let me alone to find my own amusement. Second, there was a family in the next-door chalet and the next one beyond that.

This family was a man and woman, with three children. Three children, all girls, all maybe a couple of years older than me. Maybe 16 or perhaps 17. The oldest one might have been 17. My impression was, in fact, that the two blonde girls were Sisters and the darker-haired girl was a friend invited along for the holiday. They were really quite remarkable.

During the days, they were joined by a gorgeous 17-ish red-headed girl who was just a friend for the holiday. She was rather lovely too. They all paid a lot of attention to their looks. Lots of filing and painting of fingernails and setting of hair and suntan spreading.

I had no idea of their names but, as a four-some, they made delightful eye-candy for a 15-year-old like me. I didn’t even have to go to the pool… unless they went to the pool, to spend wonderful times, behind my sunglasses lenses. I particularly found myself admiring their body beautiful attentions. They painted their nails, they combed and rolled their hair. The old imaginings of looking after myself that way came back.

I really loved the thought of having my nails covered in bright red lacquer and top shine polish. I really admired the way they set eachothers’ hair so precisely that, every evening, they would turn up with immaculate coiffures at the dance hall. They sat around the pool with their hair drying in the sun. Even now, I remember just how curiously attractive they were.

Their one-piece bathing costumes were beautiful — so up with the trends of the 1960s; bright colours, slimline fittings, accentuating their fast-developing figures. This was the time that my male hormones ran riot for the first time. Everything else before had been kindergarten stuff. For day after day, I found the irrepressible urge to go somewhere secret and wank myself senseless. Four times a day, maybe. It can’t have been good for me! As I did so, I imagined being with them, individually, and doing all those things that the boys’ magazines talked of boys doing with girls. Then, on other occasions, I thought of being just like them. Being the fifth one in their circle. Painting my nails, rolling my hair, trying on different lipsticks (did I mention the lipstick?) and wearing a stunning bathing ‘cossie’. So, I can see now, there was a heterosexual side to my thoughts, and a transvestite side.

Chapter 8 will take me back to the end of school and the things I did outside the home at 16 and 17 years of age.