Lingering in Lingery

"It wasn't me. I didn't do it. It's not fair. Why?" There was a lot of truth in what I was saying. I was just a 12 year old boy being dragged around a department store - why would I need to touch anything girly. So unlikely. But I WAS bored.

I couldn’t help it, I clung to my mother, wailing and weeping, like any pre-teen kid caught ‘doing the wrong thing’. There was a punishment coming … and I didn’t want it.

I had been taken to the shops with mum and my three sisters, Jane, Mandy and Bobby [Amanda and Roberta]. The first two were older, 15, 13 and 11. It was BORING.

And so it happened – we were at the department store, we’d been in the girl’s department looking and them trying on skirts, dresses, blouses. Yes, after so many of these trips and listening to them talking on the way there and on the way back in the car, yes, I knew a lot of the words. We’d spent some time for mum looking for a new dress for an imminent wedding. And I had gained a pair of trousers. The knees in mine kept going because of ‘being too much of a boy’.

Now – we were in the ‘unmentionables’ department – but by golly didn’t the four of them keep mentioning them. Brassieres, which they usually called bras, panties – and didn’t they go on about the range of choices. I didn’t care. I just sat nearby or sometimes wandered a bit.

I saw a classmate, Paul doing the same as me. His mum kept him close at hand with his twin sister, Sally. I’d been to his house a few times, about half-a-mile. Easy on a bike.

I saw her pick up some panties, pale blue as it happens, and turn to Sally to ask a question. Then she turned to Paul and seemed to ask him something too. Made me wonder what was happening. I was a little more surprised when Paul took the panties and said something, then his mum put them into her basket, as she turned away she suddenly hesitated, picked up another one the same and put it in the basket as well.

A little later, Paul noticed me and came to sit with me. I said something like ‘what is it with mums dragging us boys into a place like this. It’s such a waste of time. They spend such ages looking instead of getting on with just buying.”

“Jane’s told me they have to make sure that for every bit of clothing that there’s the right match, y’know, colours and even material. Apparently you can’t match denim and, I dunno, silk or whatever. Not unless ‘you do it with style’ whatever that means.”

“Sally’s a bit uninterested in all that. For some weird reason mum asks me at least as often. ‘d’y like this colour; does this match; y’know. All I know is I get dragged around being asked to comment on colours and everything. Like you said, why me? Why us? I’ve almost got used to it. And you’re surrounded by sisters, so perhaps you have less choice. I don’t worry too much – I get bored until mum or Sally ask me to help, I mean, how can I help when it’s something like matching colours or which something about the lacy trim or the ribbons – silly. At least your mum doesn’t make you do that. She doesn’t, does she, Jimmy?”

“Was that what your mum asked you – over there” and I pointed at the counter where they had stood. “And no, I don’t get asked to help like you have to. What a ghastly idea.”

“Yeah, except this time she actually asked if I thought the panties were pretty. She’s never asked that before.”

“Did you see her pick a second pair as well?”

“No. She doesn’t normally buy 2 of anything. She might buy a pack of six or something, but just 2. Strange.”

After a few minutes, Paul was called away. The trio circulated around the piles of undies, and their basket got gradually fuller. I sat there BORED.

After a while I stood up and began looking at the counters myself. If Paul was begin asked to comment, perhaps I would be asked sometime. What a ghastly idea. I picked up a pair of panties. Pink with white ribbon edging – I dropped them once I’d held them up. Then another pair, in pale blue with a lacy edging and a patterned front.

Suddenly I was interrupted. An assistant hissed at me, “What d’y think you’re doing. Those are expensive items that you’re throwing around with your no doubt grubby hands.”

She pointed at the blue pair, and I saw a tiny grey mark. I was (quite) confident it wasn’t me because I hadn’t put my hands there – but then I looked at my hands and they weren’t as clean as could be. Ordinary boy-colour, I’d have said.

She went from hissing to snarling, I wondered how many animals she could imitate, so I sniggered. Oops.

“You think this is something to laugh about. You’re coming with me.” She began to drag me off, looking for a relevant mother-unit. We got to the till, and she found a microphone and spoke ‘we have a boy aged about 10 with a blue pullover, can his mother come and collect him.”

This was not feeling good.

My mother arrived and the girl told a pack of lies.

In our family, misbehaviour usually resulted in a punishment … and usually a ‘punishment to fit the crime’. My mum was a real fan of Gilbert & Sullivan, especially the Mikado.

Whether being told truth, partial truth or whatever, mum was annoyed. Her morning had been interrupted and I was at fault. I could see cogs whirring and braincells being overactive.

“Right. If you’re wandering around, dirtying expensive panties with your grubby hands, that’s something that needs to be dealt with. You just wait there – I’m thinking exactly what to do with you … and this new interest you have in panties. And presumably all the other things you’ve been, erm, what was the girl’s word – fondling. And don’t argue, why should this lass be telling lies.”

“Mmm, she’s exaggerating.” My brain was at full speed. But I daren’t accuse an adult of lying – oh no.

“Huh, and why would she do that. I can see the mark. I know you always have dirty hands. So. You’ll be wearing panties – for a start. And something pretty and very white so that the slightest stain or mark will incur something further. I’m not sure how this will progress – but it’s about time you learnt to be clean, and careful.” That was one thing with Mum, her decision about punishments was always almost immediate.

None of the threat of ‘wait until this evening/weekend when your father gets home’; that was what my friends usually got told. That hateful threatening delay while you waited for the relevant doom.

There was a pause. “And … it’s about time you helped more around the house. So, if you’re dressed as a girl … to keep you out of trouble AND away from dirty boy-jobs, you can help me more. That sounds fair.”

In my family ‘that sounds fair’ was meant to cut off any possible argument.

My life for some days, even weeks, looked like it was not going to be as I wished.

One Mum, Three Sisters, Four Females, several Shopgirls, One Manageress – I was badly outnumbered.

The girl said, ‘Can I help you choose something suitable for a new-girl.” That’s what she said. I didn’t have a clue what she meant. She slipped Mum a small blue and pink business-card, saying, “My name’s Teresa, call me or my colleague Petra if you need any help. And there’s other shops in the local area that you might find useful.”

“Well. That does sound interesting. I shall investigate on young Jimmy’s behalf. Or maybe for a few days it’ll be Jinny – sounds enough the same.”

Can you wonder that I was wailing.