Kissing girls was brilliant and the burning desire for more intimate moments was strong. I had experienced little affection in my first 16 years really. So, I felt a little less lonely until the letter she wrote dumping me… Still, after necking with Molly in the dark, I was still mixed up. Wishing I was another girl.

Chapter 11

Knowing the hand up the skirt trick was a mistake, I had worked out for myself, I had nobody to ask how better to get onside with a girl. None of my mates were skilled in this department. No Brothers to ask, no Dad as approachable as I needed. Could I open up with Mum? I had no alternative. She would understand. But, no disclosure about the hand up the…..jaxci!!

“Mum, have you got a minute or two…?” There! I had dared myself to try…..

“Yes, honey, How can I help?” she answered with a kindly smile.

“Well, it’s like this…. I’ve not had many girlfriends and, well… you see…. It’s difficult… There’s a lot to think about and…. Well, I just can’t….. you know…. Er….

“Enough!” she smiled. “Don’t worry about what you say…. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before, I’m sure.” She wanted me to open up — perhaps for the first time, we might have a deep and meaningful conversation. Mother and Son. What couldn’t I say to her? Well, how about I feel like a girl sometimes…. That’s what I couldn’t say to her. I looked at her again, remembering the picture on the landing passage upstairs of her and Dad in her most elegant days. Married in 1937, it would have been taken about then. Elegant. Nice word.

Conscious of the silence, I had to say something…. “Well, we haven’t talked much about me and girls and stuff like that. I mean, I have been out with a few girls you know and I’ve got… well, one big question. Why would girls want to kiss someone like me?” “Because you’re a good looking boy who will treat them right.” Came the answer.

“Yeah, but if I was a girl, I’d rather kiss another girl than kiss me….”

I wanted to say more but something stopped me. I knew what it was but… no hope.

“Honey, that’s nonsense. Girls don’t go kissing other girls anyhow….. Well……, Err…” Now she was stumbling with her words….. Maybe talking about lesbians was off limits.....

“Lesbians, yeah, I know Mum — I know enough about that…. well enough to have kissed girls and to know that it’s great and I can really understand them… lesbians that is. But I can’t understand wanting to kiss guys….” I was in a tangle, knowing what I meant, but not saying it.

“Now, honey, you shouldn’t be concerned with that. You’ll know when the right girl comes along and it will all seem natural.” She hadn’t answered my question, but then again, I hadn’t asked my question. What was that? Something like: “Mum, if I told you I felt like a girl sometimes, but still wanted to kiss girls and be a guy with them, is it normal?” Lesbians back in the closet for now!

An opportunity lost, like so many before I thought. I can’t talk with my parents. But then again, I didn’t know anyone who could at my age.

-- oo00oo --

Weeks passed by and I was occupied with school work and learning to drive a car. Heavy! Concentration needed. No time to focus on girls and my feelings, except that now, on Friday nights, I was able to go to a local Youth Club.

Others of my mates were going and there were girls there too. From a local girls’ school and from the mixed-sex comprehensive academy not far away. I knew enough of the guys, and many of the girls, if only by sight. We hung out, drank Coke and listened to music. The girls sometimes danced — it was the time of dancing around a handbag on the floor… the handbag had nothing in it except perhaps a lipstick, but the dancing enabled the ones with a good figure to advertise the fact and the ones who had no tits, or weighed too much, had to hide.

There were school dances to go to and those were good markets to catch a partner for a few weeks to come; which meant having someone to kiss on the bus on the way home, and on their doorstep as your “said goodnight, see you next week?” For the first time, I kissed a girl with my tongue in her mouth. Her lipstick tasted good….

But not as good as the lipstick I had at home. I had not forgotten.

Every Friday night, back home, I put on my lipstick before going to bed and did what 17 year old boys do. I got better and better at holding back before I would cum. Most usually, I was dreaming about one of two particular girls at the Youth Club, or alternatively, about my experiences back in the summer at the hair salon.

In my heart, I knew now that I was different from all of my friends. Unable to talk with them, I just knew that none felt the same way. And I certainly didn’t want them to know. Tears came occasionally at the prospect of never being able to share such a scandalous thing… yes, scandalous… good word. How people would laugh and mock me if they knew.

I’d be the Danny La Rue of the school! The one who got the girl’s part in the school play. But was I a Drag Queen, like Mr La Rue….. not when I found out he was gay, I wasn’t. I did love his costumes and I wouldn’t miss his television programme on mainstream BBC television on a Saturday night. The wonderful dresses. The tightly-fitted dresses. What corsets must be under there?! I dreamed of trying such corsetry and it would be fifteen years before THAT dream came true! And the hair… the wonderful wigs he wore… usually blonde and piled very high, but occasionally flamboyant red!

Yes, I dreamed that the salon would one day do my hair that way……

-- oo00oo --

When Angie had put all my hair in rollers — there were twenty one in total, covering the front, the sides and the crown of my head. The ones closest to my face were only one-inch in diameter, the ones on the crown maybe one-and-a-half inches. The style made a false ‘crown’ near the front and all of the rollers above that were set back towards the crown and beyond.

Angie had put a net over the whole array — quite why was never explained — and I was taken across to the dryers. I was sat between a young Mother on one side, who I later saw was a bright bright blonde, with long sleek hair to her shoulders. I was sat between her and a more mature lady, who I later saw was like the receptionist; a big bouffant! When her hair was styled, I saw just how much backcombing would do to create height and width. I was able to look around at all that was going on. Colours going on in one place, sharp cutting going on in at least two stations. Angie was doing a colour on another young lady while I was under the dryer. I know there was colouring now — at the time I just saw trays of gloop being plastered all over these women’s hair.

I looked again and, just as I was told my drying time was up, the big bouffant had turned into the most wonderful ‘up-do’, with rolling curls an integral part of the style. Imagine sleeping with that in place, I thought to myself!

By then, Angie had me in the seat… and the backcombing began.

I watched in wonderment — but total silence after telling her to do whatever she thought was right. She had been told it was a female style… a feminine style I had said on the phone — without explanation. I kept my mouth shut — stupidly so. Every curl was combed out separately and left sitting aside from the next, in a leafy pattern.. Very feminine, if only it was longer! How I wished...

She could clearly see by the way she had placed the rollers, that there was only one way to go.

By the time I left the salon, my hair was in danger of cracking because there was so much lacquer sprayed into it. I was in heaven as I walked down that street. I think I got some side-ways looks from people who had seen me come out of the shop. But what did I care?

-- oo00oo --

Hallow’een came and the school dance was upon us. Not a costume affair — just a come-as-you-are party night with a live band who played — badly — cover versions of the hits of the previous three or four years. We all danced that night…… pairing off was a bit of a lottery because, just as a guy made a move towards a girl, it was just as likely another guy would step in ahead of him. I was kinda lucky because the girl I had in mind was a girl I had talked with at Youth Club….

And yes, the two of us started to dance, danced on, and left for the bus home together. We kissed for a long long time on her Mummy and Daddy’s doorstep. Tongues and all! She was only 15 and it turned out later — much later — that I was her first real date. Well, there was a coincidence, she was my second, but my first “real” date. Molly was history. Oh, how I wish I had gotten some experience with one of those girls in Jersey the previous summer!

She would never know my secret. I would have real trouble keeping it so.

However long we were dating, I would make sure she would never know that I’d really like to get inside her panties…. In a special way.

That meant never making the mistake of wearing panties when we were going out together. Still less it meant making sure my bras, of which I now had three, were right out of sight. It also meant that I would never ever imagine her kissing another girl — except me.

Cross-dressing was put on the back burner for the time being.

Chapter 12 leads me to more open discussion with my Mum and back to the salon where my secret was safe.