Cheong Sam
A Vignette
By Maryanne Peters

My grandfather fought in Vietnam. He was the same age as I am, when he was drafted. He said that he had long hair just like mine when he was called up. They ran the clippers over his head and left him with a quarter inch all over.

“I can’t criticize long hair when yours is no longer that mine was at the same age, Sam, but we were still men in my day. Now I am not so sure.” He was always talking like that. “You have these bisexuals and metrosexuals and gender-sexuals, and whatever. We had to fight a war. I can’t see your generation doing that.”

Maybe he was right. How would I react if it happened here and now?

“Bring me my war trunk and I will find something for you. In fact, what I have in there has your name on it, Sam. Let me dig around in here and find it for you.

I learned the joke when he produced it – it was a cheong-sam. Not a Cheong, Sam, but a cheong-sam. It was red embroidered silk and I thought that it was beautiful. Not that I was an admirer of female clothing at that time, but you can look at something and see the beauty without having to wear it.

But in this case something told me that I had to wear it – something other than my grandfather, that is.

There were his old fatigues in the trunk too, and his number 1 dress uniform, but they would hang off me. The cheong-sam he had bought for some woman over there, but never had the chance to give it to her. Instead, he had brought it home.

“This has never been worn, but it should be,” he said. “It’s got your name on it.” He was joking about the name, but somehow, I felt drawn to try it on.

But not in front of my grandfather. That would be weird. I took it home. I tried it on. It changed me.

I am not sure that it is supposed to be worn with black tights. I tried it on with bare legs first, but then I felt compelled to shave them, right up to the crotch. Somehow that seemed right, and all that was needed was to fill out the bust and the butt.

I tried to use padding, but silk shows everything. It occurred to me that the cheong-sam needs to be filled with flesh. It doesn’t have to be a lot of flesh – Asian women like the girl my grandfather was pursuing, are hardly buxom. The only flesh I needed could be created with the right drugs – a cocktail that is available on line.

It was only a matter of time before I could fill out the cheong-sam, but the journey to that point was the best part of my life – so far. This garment had come into my life and changed me. It needed to be worn and it needed to be filled, and slowly but wonderfully, it was.

Now all I need to do is step outside and introduce to the world the new Sam, in a cheong-sam.

The End

© Maryanne Peters 2023