6 – Love Blooms
On Sunday, Jamie arrived ten minutes before his scheduled noon arrival, driving an older model Ford 150 pickup that obviously was used as a workday vehicle at his grandfather’s hardware business. I knew he would be eager to be on time, so I tried to be ready for him, but I was still working on my hair when he arrived.

I had been worried how my parents would receive Jamie; it had only been a short while since my father accepted the inevitable and began recognizing me as his daughter. He even used the proper pronouns and began giving me fatherly hugs and light kisses that he’d never give to Perry, the boy.

I could hear Kelly, my sister, greet him loudly with the words, “You must be Jamie. Please come in. Perry’s still getting dressed. You know how slow these girls can be.”

I had dressed in tight teal-colored shorts that exposed nearly all of my upper thigh and a sleeveless pink tee shirt with bunny rabbits frolicking across the breasts; underneath I wore the A-cup bra with the forms that I had sewn into the cups. Hearing the conversation with Jamie, Kelly and my parents, I knew I better hurry to rescue him from their nagging questions. I was still wrestling with my hair, when I heard my door open. It was my sister, Kelly.

“Let me help you with that. Mom and dad are giving Jamie the third degree,” she said.

“I know.”

Kelly took command and quickly tied my hair into a loose ponytail, even though I protested I didn’t like ponytails.

“Trust me, you’ll be glad you’ve got the hair that way when you get in the water.”

“But it’s not very feminine,” I protested.

“It will be.”

She grabbed my pink baseball cap and ran my loosely braided hair through the hole in the cap.

*****
As I walked down the stairs I could hear the conversation in the living room and my dad say, “You’re aware of Perry’s gender situation, I presume.”

“Yes, sir. She told me and I respect her . . .” Jamie responded, his speech faltering as I walked into the living room.

Jamie and mom were seated at each end of the sofa and dad was in the side chair; all three were seated forward, as if in an intense discussion. I was sure poor Jamie’s stomach must have been churning. When he saw me, Jamie’s mouth fell open and he was speechless. His eyes took on a shocked look, and I wondered if I looked weird or something.

Mom broke the ice: “Aren’t you the cutest thing, darling? But, aren’t those shorts too skimpy?”

“Mo – o – m,” I moaned. “All the girls wear these.”

“Maybe, but they’re too short for you,” dad said. “Now go back up and change into something more respectable.”

I felt flushed, worrying both about whether Jamie liked what I was wearing and about my mothers’ orders to change into something more modest.

“Hi, Perry,” Jamie said, offering a tentative wave.

Then, without thinking, I turned to Jamie and said, “What do you think, Jamie? Are these too short?”

Immediately, I wished I could take back the question. What right had I to inject Jamie into an argument between a girl and her parents?

Jamie, however, seemed unfazed and answered quickly, “I think nice girls obey their parents.”

Mom and dad broke into smiles; I scowled momentarily at Jamie, before charging back upstairs to my room. I found a light summer skirt that that ran to my knees and changed into it; strangely, the skirt made me feel both comfortable and extremely feminine. I examined myself in the full length mirror, seeing a delicate, slender girl wearing sandals with her toenails painted in blush pink. I might be the only girl on the beach with a skirt, but I had to admit it felt good.

“Wow” was Jamie’s only reaction as I re-entered the living room.

He had a broad smile on his face and got up and came over to hug me and give me a quick kiss on the lips. He reached down onto the sofa and picked up a bouquet of flowers, mainly daisies, interspersed with tiny white carnations, and handed them to me. “Here’s to a lovely girl and a great friend,” he said.

Naturally I blushed. I was speechless and wanted to cry.

“Here darling, let me take those and put them in water,” mom said, taking the flowers.

“That’s awfully sweet, Jamie,” I finally said, rising on my tiptoes to kiss him on the lips.

I stepped back and looked at Jamie; he was every bit as handsome as the boy I saw in the photos he forwarded and in our Skype chats. His face had grown tan and his arms seemed to have become more muscled, perhaps due to the work he must have been doing at his grandfather’s shop.

*****
Jamie and I had only a few minutes to ourselves before we were to meet the other two couples; he was to drive to Cindy’s house, where we all were to board the mini-van that Josh had borrowed from his parents to make the 45-minute drive to Lake Geneva.

“You’re really so much prettier than your pictures,” he said after a few minutes.

“Really?”

“Oh yes, so often the pictures on the Internet the girls look prettier than they are, but you were a truly pleasant surprise,” he said, glancing over me.

“Turn right at the next corner, Jamie,” I said as the pickup approached Cindy’s street.

As he navigated the corner, I looked at him. “And you’re so handsome, so much better in real life, Jamie,” I said.

We both smiled. “There it is, at the end of the block on the right.”

Melanie and her new boyfriend, an African-American lad named Jackson, piled into the front seat next to Josh, while Cindy joined Jamie and me in the backseat. As predicted, both Melanie and Cindy wore shorts much like the ones my parents had ordered me to take off.

In our short drive, Jamie commented. “You know it’s remarkable. This is the first time we’ve ever been together, yet I think I’ve known you all my life, Perry.”

“Me too,” I said lightly squeezing his arm as he drove. Jamie and I moved closer to each, as if to give Cindy more room on the seat.

“It’s kind of cramped so maybe this will help,” Jamie said, lifting his arm and wrapping it over my shoulder. I took this as an invitation to nestle close enough to him to smell the manly scent of his deodorant.

“This is much more comfy,” I said, looking up at the lively blue eyes of my darling.

*****
The day couldn’t have been more ideal for young lovers: clear blue sky and temperatures in the comfortable eighties. Big Foot Beach State Park was located just a couple of blocks from the main shopping area of the City of Lake Geneva and at the east end of the large, clear waters of Lake Geneva. The only downer was that the beach was understandably crowded and we had to cram our beach blankets into a narrow strip of land at the far end of the beach. Cindy, Melanie and I had all worn our swimsuits underneath our clothes and we quickly took off our tops, shorts and, in my case, a skirt. Soon, we all three stood in bikinis.

Jamie was all eyes and I shamelessly offered a shimmy as if to show off my femininity.

“Oh my God,” he said.

“Yes, Jamie, she makes me so jealous,” Cindy said. “Look at the body.”

“Come on, both of you look great,” I said, truthfully.

“Not as hot as you, Perry. Those two guys over there eyeing us. You can bet they’re looking at you, not me,” Cindy said, laughing.

*****
It was nearing dusk when we arrived back into town and got out of the van. We said good bye to our friends and moved into the pickup truck. Jamie and I had about an hour to spend alone, and I suggested we take a walk on a wilderness path along the river. It was located in a county park and frankly was often the place where couples of all ages walked.

“We can find a bench and talk for a while. It’s a beautiful park, Jamie,” I said.

“Sounds perfect,” he said smiling.

It was a marvelous site with the lazily flowing river making a bend among the trees, bushes and downed branches.

Jamie held my hand and we nestled closely. After a few moments, he kissed me, gently and slowly and I grew excited as he caressed the soft flesh of my arm with his calloused, large hands. I knew this was where I belonged. He was extraordinarily affectionate, his lips warm and his caresses loving.

“Can we never be together, Jamie?” I whispered.

“Why not?” he responded.

Just then an older couple who had been passing by on the path stopped to look at the scenic river; they spied us and I saw the woman whisper something to her mate. Both looked directly at us and smiled. I swear I saw the man give Jamie a discreet “thumbs-up” gesture followed by a wink.

“I wonder if that old couple sat on this same bench many years ago,” I smiled.

“And they’re still lovers, it appears,” Jamie said.

“I wonder if that could be us forty and fifty years from now.”

“Would you like that, Perry?”

“Oh darling. Is that such an impossible dream?”

“Not for me,” he said, beginning to resume our kisses. They grew passionate and Jamie’s hands became more explorative of my body. I feared he’d start wanting to play with my breasts or my boy part; I wanted to avoid that, because it exposed me as not a complete girl. Jamie was considerate and must have sensed my reluctance for such touching. He avoided my sensitive parts. I was grateful.

Darkness was beginning to descend into the woods before we finally got up from the bench and returned to his pickup in the parking lot. He had to get back to his grandparents’ house by nine o’clock since he had to work early the next day.

“Perry, if you want, I’ll be able to see you often in the next year,” he said as we sat together in the cab of the pickup in front of my home. We were spending a few minutes together before he had to leave.

“That’s great,” I said. “But how are we going to do that? Aren’t you going to college somewhere this year?”

“I’m taking a year off and I’ll be working for grandpa and living with them,” he announced.

“But what about college?”

“I’m going to establish residency in Illinois so I can attend Northern Illinois on a state tuition.”

I was astonished. Northern Illinois was located in DeKalb, not far from the Wisconsin border or from our city.

“You’ll be finishing high school here this year and I wanted to be close to you,” he explained.

“You’re doing this to see me?” I couldn’t believe my ears.

“Well, yes, and besides the year delay will give me a chance to earn some money so that my school debt won’t be too high.”

“Jamie, I love you.”

“And I love you, forever,” he said. He took me in his arms and kissed me.

“I wish you didn’t have to go, Jamie.”

“Me too, but I better get started.”

He walked me to the front door. It opened before we got there.

“You two took a long enough time out there,” my father stood like a sentinel.

“Oh daddy. Don’t be such a fuddy-duddy.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Periwinkle,” Jamie said.

Just then, dad broke into a smile. “When I came home from a date, your grandfather always lectured us about what the neighbors would think. How I hated that.”

“Oh daddy, I love you,” I said entering the house, giving him a short kiss on her cheek.

“Drive safely young man,” father said, as Jamie returned to his truck for the trip home.

*****
“I can’t believe I’ve got such a beautiful daughter,” my father said as he joined mother and me in the kitchen.

Mother looked at her husband. “Jack, I’m so happy you’ve finally realized you no longer have a son.”

“I guess I can’t fight all three of you on this,” he said in referring to my mother, my sister Kelly and myself. Dad had registered a mixture of disgust, disappointment and anger at learning first that I had not only been dressing as a girl, but had actually wanted to live as one.

“No way,” he told mom after first learning about me. “We have a son.”

John Periwinkle had been an athlete and a so-called man’s man all his life. Varsity tight end on the football team, a hunter and a fisherman, dad had constantly chided me to become more athletic and to build up my muscles, something I tried to do to satisfy him. I always failed. I know he was hurt by my lack of masculinity, but he was always patient and was careful not to ridicule me, even though he tried hard to persuade me to become more physically active.

Mom, Kelly and me helped my father to understand that my gender issues were a part of nature, that I couldn’t help myself in feeling that I was a girl. Kelly was particularly helpful, showing dad a few books and videos that explained my situation. Now, I was so happy that he saw me as his little girl.

The coming school year would be difficult. Arrangements had been made to have me attend as a girl; my school records would read “female;” while the school administration had been cooperative, we were all convinced that I might face harassment, bullying and possible physical harm from some of the students.

“I’ve been teased and bullied during all my school years, and I’m willing to face up to whatever happens,” I told the school principal at a meeting attended by my parents, the principal, vice principal and school counselor.

*****
My first days of school were not easy. Castor Cornelius, an overweight, scruffy kid in my class, needled me almost daily, nestling up to me to make lewd comments under his breath. “Love to see that pathetic pussy,” he’d whisper, the scent from his foul mouth accenting the horror of this and similar comments not worth mentioning.

Cindy’s boyfriend Josh convinced the repulsive Castor that he’d best not bother me anymore. Josh was joined in this bit of vigilance by Melanie’s boyfriend, Jackson, who joined us on the trip to Lake Geneva. I’m not fond of violence, but it didn’t bother me that the husky presence of two strapping boys helped to persuade Castor to back off.

Then there was Maryann Boatwright, a plain looking girl who wore no makeup. “God will never forgive you, Perry,” she said. Her parents had objected on religious grounds to the school for permitting me to attend as a female, even to the extent of forcing the school for a brief time to forbid me from using the girls’ bathrooms. During the period, I was told to use the facilities either at the nurse’s station or in the third floor teachers’ lounge.

There was a brief legal fight, which thankfully ended without publicity. The school district’s attorney told the board to adhere to the state’s recent education policy that would permit students to use the bathroom facilities of their chosen gender, even if it was different from their birth gender. Maryann’s parents apparently accepted the resolution, since nothing more was heard about it.

Perhaps the fact that I sought out Maryann to befriend her, in spite of her apparent opposition to my new gender, may have helped. I had known her from a Social Studies class where we partnered on a history project celebrating Abraham Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation. She and I had enjoyed working together; to be truthful, I had always felt sorry for Maryann, since she had been teased and belittled for her plain, awkward clothes and her strong religious tendencies. During our project, I found her, however, to be intelligent, witty and surprisingly courageous for standing up to the ridicule.

I felt that Maryann was an unhappy girl; she always was morose when we worked together; it was only after a few sessions that she finally began to warm up and I saw that Maryann began to display her more positive personality traits. However, I resented Maryann for involving herself into my gender issues. At first I was angry, but then my friend Cindy suggested something when she and I were discussing how I should react.

“What advice would you give to a girl who wrote in with a similar problem, Perry?” she asked.

“I guess I’d tell her to approach the girl in a friendly manner and ask her about it,” I said.

“Well, then why don’t you listen to what Perry would tell her,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye.

It was good advice.

On the day after her parents complained to the school and I was forced out of the girls’ bathroom, I approached Maryann. She looked at me with a belligerent face, perhaps worrying that I would hit her. She needn’t have worried, since Maryann was a tall, husky girl who could likely have beaten me to a pulp in any physical confrontation

“I’m sorry, Maryann, that I have offended you,” I began.

The girl looked stunned. “Thanks,” she mumbled.

“I just had to do this for my own sanity. I feel I am a girl deep down inside.”

Maryann held up her hand, as if to stop me from further comment.

“I know,” she said. “I am the one who should apologize. I didn’t realize what I was doing. You’re one of the few students in this school who were ever nice to me and then I hurt you, Perry.”

“Let’s just be friends, OK?” I volunteered.

“Yes, girlfriends,” she said smiling.

A few days later, Maryann said her dad, the pastor of a church known for its strict Evangelistic nature, had been the one to raise the issue, even though the girl said she argued with them about it. “After all, I told them how nice you’d been to me, one of the few people in that school who was,” she explained. It appeared her mother had also argued that the family should not raise the issue, since it appeared her daughter might be ostracized even more by the students.

I guess you’d call that a happy ending since Maryann and I grew even closer, often spending our time together in talking over more serious matters than clothing, hair and boys. We both learned many things from each other; she knew the Bible inside and out, while I had always been enthralled with history, delving into books and finding educational materials online at by watching the History channel. It was a refreshing change.

“Perry, I love my father, and I hate to do something he’d disapprove of,” Maryann said several days later.

“You mean like being my friend?”

“Yes, I guess. I want you and I to be friends, but daddy would probably hate me if he knew,” she said.

“It’s not good to hide stuff from your parents,” I counseled, recalling that I, too, had been guilty of hiding my crossdressing and girlish desires from my own parents. “You know I feel so much better now that everyone knows about me as a girl. It’s so hard to hide things. I always felt guilty, kind of slimy. You know what I mean?”

“You think I should tell daddy?”

“Would your mother be more sympathetic?”

“I think so. Why don’t you first tell your mother? She might have some advice.”

“Oh, she’s scared of daddy.”

I grabbed Maryann’s hand; I felt sorry for the sweet girl whose life was being molded by a intolerant religious zealot. I doubted Maryann would tell her father of our friendship.

*****
Two days later, Maryann sought me out in the cafeteria. “Perry, we can be friends,” she said excitedly.

“You told your father?” I asked.

“Yes, and he was so mad at first. He wanted to spank me real hard, even though I’m 17 now. He always spanked me when I was little. ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child’ he would say. But mom stopped him.”

“How awful,” I said.

“It was a terrible scene but once he settled down, I told him how you were my only real friend in school. I said you’re really sweet and said that you couldn’t help being what you are.”

“So you convinced him?”

“Not completely, no, and he wants to meet you,” she said. “But I know he’ll try to talk you out of being a girl.”

“That’s OK, I’ll meet him, if he wishes,” I said.

For my Saturday morning meeting with Pastor Boatwright, I dressed modestly in a long print skirt that nearly went to my ankles. I wore a long-sleeved blouse with a high collar and put on flats. I let my hair flow long and straight and wore simple earrings and a single strand pearl necklace. I wore only neutral lip coloring and no eyeliner. I felt I was the model of modesty.

The pastor was a tall, powerful man with piercing eyes; when I arrived at his church office on the following Saturday morning, he greeted me. His face was expressionless. He was not anything like our pastor at the First Methodist Church who exuded gentleness and kindness.

Pastor Boatwright greeted me coldly, and I felt a shiver as he led me into his office. It was richly furnished, with book cases lining two of the walls, a glass cabinet along the third wall and draped windows on the fourth. He said nothing and motioned me to a chair. He moved into a large executive chair behind his massive desk and sat down ponderously, eyeing me.

“You’re the boy who has been trying to fool my daughter,” he said bluntly.

“Sir, I’m sorry, but I’ve always been honest with Maryann,” I said, looking him in the eye.

“You, young man have been dishonest, trying to pass yourself off as a girl.”

“No sir, I consider myself a girl, even though I was born with some male physical parts,” I said.

“The Lord considers you as a boy and I know there are places you can go to regain your masculinity. Otherwise, you’re an abomination and I must forbid Maryann from seeing you.”

I had brought along the letter I had obtained from Dr. Aliopolous, affirming that my belief that I was female was based upon a reality that I had a feminine psyche, even though I had a male organ. I also had a short article that I downloaded and printed out telling about the reality of transgendered girls like myself. I showed both of them to him; he began to read both items. To give him time to examine them, I took my attention from him and looked about the room. In the glass cabinet, I saw several plaques and trinkets, and what caught my attention were several baseball trophies as well as a picture of what appeared to be a younger Pastor Boatwright in the uniform of the Columbus Red Birds, a high level minor league baseball team.

“You were a ballplayer?” I asked when he was done reading.

He looked at me quizzically, as if my question was weird, especially coming from me, who I presume he considered to be an effeminate, disgusting young man.

“Yes, you interested in baseball?” he asked me.

I nodded. “It’s the only sport I like,” I said. “You know lots of girls like and play baseball.”

“Do you play?”

“A little,” I said. “My dad and grandfather both taught to me to play; my grandfather played in the minors, too. Did you ever get to the big leagues?”

“No, sadly, the spring I tried out for the Cardinals, I ruined my knee and it never healed properly. My career ended in Triple A. I actually was a pretty promising pitcher and I was devastated. It’s then when I discovered the Lord to be my savior.”

We spent the next few minutes talking baseball, including discussing the fortunes of the Milwaukee Brewers (my team) and the Chicago White Sox (his favorite) in the current season. He was surprised with my knowledge of the game; he wondered how skilled I was at playing the game.

“Not very good, though I was told I was a good fielder, but I couldn’t throw hard or far and I was a weak hitter,” I admitted. “But I love the gracefulness of the game.”

I was surprised how he warmed up to me after a while; he still insisted on treating me as a boy, but he did say he’d study the matter more fully. He agreed that I could still be friends to Maryann, but he said she’d have to tell him about every one of our meetings.

“You seem like a nice young man, even if I’m appalled that you are wearing a skirt,” he said in dismissing me.

*****
I helped Maryann change her clothing style, persuading her to move out of the gray, long skirts she wore, into something a bit more colorful, while adhering to her father’s strict conservative dress code. I taught her how to put on modest bits of makeup to add color to her face and highlight her lips and eyes.

“I don’t want my father to get too upset with the changes, though,” she warned me.

Whether he noticed it or not, he apparently didn’t stop his daughter’s slow transition from a dowdy girl from a throwback age into a truly pretty girl.

“Maybe your dad’s happy to see how happy you are, Maryann,” I told her one day when she wondered why her parents hadn’t objected to the change.

It wasn’t long before Maryann was accepted by my group of girlfriends. Melanie Scouter was especially welcoming to the rather ordinary-looking pastor’s daughter, even going so far as to invite her to consider trying out for the girls’ volleyball team. Perhaps she warmed up to Maryann due to my friendship with the girl, but I really think it was Maryann’s wit and openness that helped build the relationship. Even though her fashion style hardly matched ours, Maryann was just like one of the girls, same as I was. Isn’t it great having girlfriends with whom you are free to giggle and gossip?

*****
My romance with Jamie grew during the first months of school; we were able to see each other every Sunday. With his earnings and a loan from his parents, Jamie was able to purchase a used Chevrolet Malibu that was in surprisingly good shape. While it wasn’t the trendiest of autos for a young man, it served the purpose, offering both dependability and safety.

Most Sundays, he arrived precisely at eight-thirty in the morning, just in time for me to bound out of the house and join him to attend nine o’clock mass at St. Patrick’s Church. Jamie was a devout Catholic, something that at first I didn’t understand. He was such a kind and open-minded boy and I wondered how he could even abide by the strict, seemingly backward views of the Catholic Church.

“I love the music and that peace I feel in the mass,” he explained. “I find great comfort in kneeling during the mass, giving me time to reflect on who I am and how I fit into the world.”

“But look at what harm the Church as done, like those priests abusing boys and their hatred of women,” I argued.

He agreed the Church had done many wrongs, but he added: “Look at the message of Jesus, whether you believe he was man or God. He told us to love one another as we love ourselves, even testing our love of Him by how we treat the ‘least’ of our brothers and sisters. That’s the message I get out of going to mass.”

One Sunday afternoon, just before he was to leave to drive back to his grandparents’ place, we nestled together on the sofa in our living room, watching a Chicago Bears-Green Bay Packer football game; it was the longest standing rivalry in professional football (and one of the bitterest). It was the only thing we ever really argued about.

We turned the sound off during the halftime break, taking the quiet time to snuggle a bit closer, kissing and caressing. It was heavenly, so much better than the arguing we had engaged in just a few minutes earlier over a disputed play; naturally, we each saw the play differently, each with our own eyes clouded with either green and gold of the Packers or the dark blue of the Bears.

“Jamie,” I asked as we backed off a particularly intoxicating kiss, “If we marry, do I have to convert into a Bear fan?”

“No,” he laughed. “You can just be a stupid Packer fan.”

“And you can be an even more stupid Bear fan.”

We both giggled and then embraced even more passionately. Then I became serious.

“Jamie, but do I have to convert to your Church and become a Catholic?”

He looked at me, a puzzled look covering his face.

“You’re serious about marriage?” he asked.

I suddenly recovered. Marriage? How in the world could I even seriously consider such a thing? I wasn’t even a real girl yet; and then, would the Church even accept me, even recognize such a marriage?

“No, Jamie, how could I think about marriage? I’m sorry.”

“Oh Perry, my love,” he said, taking into his arms and embracing me tightly.

“It’s OK to think about marriage, Perry,” he whispered into my ear. “It would be sweet being married to you.”

“Really, Jamie. Even though I’m . . .”

“Shush,” he said, interrupting me. “Soon you’ll be all the woman I’d ever want as my wife.”

"Jamie, I love you so much.”

He smiled, caressing my hand that felt fragile and tiny in his massive, but gentle grasp. He kissed me.

“Just imagine if you hadn’t seen your ‘Ask Perry and Cindy’ blog,” he said softly. “We’d have never met.”

“Was my advice to you any good?” I asked, teasingly.

He said nothing, but drew me closer into his hug and we cuddled tightly together, enjoying each other. We never turned the sound back on the television to watch the second half. We forgot about the Packer-Bear football game that afternoon.

Apparently, my advice column was a success at least for Jamie and me. Someday, perhaps, I might become Mrs. Jansson. It has a nice sound, doesn’t it?