“You’re sitting just like a girl,” his mother said.

The voice was harsh and accusing, jarring Lawrence out of his concentration on the book he was reading.

“Ah . . .oh . . . mom, I’m sorry,” he replied, quickly uncurling his legs which had been tucked daintily under his body. He now sat more erect, both of his feet squarely on the floor; yet, he felt he still might have looked a bit girlish.

His mother had been warning him regularly about his posture and mannerisms, letting him know that his father had been adamant that Lawrence should be acting more a 13-year-old boy. “Quit prancing about like a girl,” his father scolded him several nights before, having caught Lawrence cavorting about like a ballerina as he listened to music from “Swan Lake.”

“Oh Larry,” his mother argued. “The boy loves good music and likes to act it out. Let him alone.”

“Christ, he should be out playing ball, or hanging out with the guys. He’s our only son, and he’s acting like a girl.”

In recent months, the argument over Lawrence’s behavior became a nightly litany, usually occurring after his father had returned home from the Fly Inn, a neighborhood tavern that catered to airline employees. His father was an airline mechanic, and a successful one, having been made a lead mechanic in his crew, a position of great responsibility in that he had to sign off on the fitness of a plane to fly. The family lived a few blocks from the city’s airport. Lawrence Collins, Sr., displayed an Irish joviality that made him popular with his co-workers and the patrons at the Fly Inn. At home, however, his father turned dour, forever sarcastic and critical of both Lawrence Jr. and his mother.

Due to Larry Collins’ popularity with his co-workers, he had been elected president of his local Mechanics Union the previous year, a job with a workload that forced him to quit stopping at the Fly Inn after work. The job of president took on a 24/7 character at the Collins residence, with Larry Sr. usually working in his home office to make phone calls and work on the computer late into the evening. The family could hear him yelling over the phone to some callers. The union was in tense negotiations with the airlines, and it was obvious the bargaining would be difficult.

As a result, his outrage at Lawrence not being more boyish was reduced. He occasionally would express concern about the boy, and Lawrence often sensed his father looked upon him with great disgust. Lawrence was thankful, however, that his father no longer went into drunken assaults on his girlish behavior.

In truth, Lawrence Sr. had been a doting, loving father early in his son’s life, eagerly changing diapers and assisting his wife, Dorothy, in the caring for their young son; the attention the two parents gave to young Lawrence became particularly attentive after Dorothy suffered a miscarriage when Lawrence was a year old, an event that ended the couple’s hopes for future children.

As the boy reached ten, it was apparent he was different from most boys in the neighborhood. He cared not for the rough-housing of the boys, their pushing and shoving. He stayed far away from the pickup baseball games and football skirmishes that occurred on a pair of adjacent vacant lots on his street.

“Why don’t you go out a play with the boys?” his mother used to chide him until he came home one day bloodied and in tears.

“The ball hit me in the face, mommy,” he explained through his sniffles. “Billy threw it hard at me, and I couldn’t catch it. He threw it too hard.”

“Oh my poor baby,” his mother said, wiping his face.

“And Billy said he didn’t throw it too hard. He said I should go play with the girls. And they all laughed at me, mommy.”

His mother knew better than to tell his father about the incident; his father had tried in vain to teach Lawrence how to throw and catch a baseball, finally giving it up as a bad job.

During those years in late elementary school as Lawrence Jr. showed signs of being inept at sports and apparently disliking anything that other boys did. His father began spending nights at the Fly Inn, and for several years, until his election to the union position, he returned home to heap verbal abuse on his wife and only son. His father, however, never struck either of them, and Lawrence never recalled being spanked by his father.

Lawrence drew closer to his mother, helping her with housework, including doing much of the cooking, a chore his mother abhorred, but Lawrence seemed to pickup kitchen skills easily and enthusiastically. He found happiness in hurrying home after school, putting on one of his mother’s frilly aprons and working in the kitchen. His light brown hair was fine in texture and typically was let to grow down to his neckline, before being cut. His need to flick the hair from his eyes added to his feminine mannerisms.

“Why don’t you put this scarf on?” his mother asked one afternoon, handing him a particularly colorful silk wrap. “It’ll keep your hair back while you finish decorating those tarts.”

That afternoon, because Lawrence was busy baking tarts and decorating them, his mother had him wear a pink frilly smock. His slender smooth arms protruded from the smock and he had felt especially girlish that day. He had put on his favorite CD of “Swan Lake” and was occasionally dancing between his chores.

His mother smiled as she watched her son, always so happy and joyous when he was in the kitchen. She loved Lawrence, and especially so when he was happy. She was pleased her husband was not home, and Lawrence would have to change into more masculine attire before he did arrive.

She tied the scarf peasant fashion about his head, kissing the boy lightly on his lips when she finished.

“There you are my gypsy,” she said.

She led him to the bedroom and posed him before a mirror, smiling as she did so.

“Mommy, you made me like a girl,” Lawrence said.

“So I did, my sweet little gypsy lass,” she said.

“But mommy, I’m a boy.”

“I know, honey, but don’t you like how you’re dressed?”

Lawrence caught himself smiling into the mirror, following it with a quick pirouette, and then protesting again. “But I’m a boy.”

“And so pretty,” his mother said. “You mad at mommy for dressing you like this?”

He hesitated. “No, mommy, I love you. I’d like to be dressed like this all the time, but I’m a boy.”

“I know, Lawrence, dear, but maybe we can have some fun, just you and I. OK?”

The boy looked at his mother, a little fear tempered his enthusiasm, as he was not sure what kind of “fun” his mother had in mind.

“OK, mommy,” he said.

“Tell you what, Lawrence. You finish decorating those tarts, and then come back into the bedroom, and we’ll see what we can do.”

“What do you wanna do mommy?”

“How’d you like to be mommy and daughter for an hour or so?”

“You mean me be your daughter?”

“Yes, honey. Would you like that?”

“Oh yes, mommy, but won’t it be wrong? I’m a boy.”

“I don’t think so, if it makes you happy, dear.”

“It does, mommy. It does,” the boy said gleefully, kissing his mother and then running back to the kitchen to finish the tarts. He was fashioning little yellow daisies on the frosting of each tart, and he used an exaggerated girly motion as he did each one. As he did so, he began humming in a voice that was light and wispy and in a boy soprano register. Even though he was approaching 13 years old, his voice still hadn’t changed and he was one of the few boys of his age still singing soprano in the choir; it caused him some embarrassment and Miss Schoenweiss, the music teacher, diplomatically placed him next to the alto section and other boys.

“Now let’s take off all our clothes, dear,” his mother said as he returned to her bedroom.

“All?”

“Yes, I’ll leave, and you can put on these,” she said, holding out a pair of cotton panties, white with pictures of little girls skipping among flowers. She had removed them from a package of new panties, labeled: “Little Diane -- Panties for Girls.”

“These, mommy,” he said, holding them.

“Yes, dear, I bought them just for you.”

“The whole packet?”

“Yes, I hope you like them. Now let me know when you’ve changed.”

*****
His mother left the room, and Lawrence changed, finally standing naked, except for his new panties. He stood before the mirror again, hugging himself, seeing a narrow-shouldered white-skinned body, his arms slim and without muscle tone. He noticed his hairless chest formed a slight indention between two tiny breasts formed by soft mounds of flesh.

“A girl!” he said, prompting excitement to form, and he pressed his thighs together to bury his tiny penis, which had grown hard.

“Are you ready?” his mother asked, breaking his spell.

She entered carrying what appeared to be several skirts and blouses. “These are mine, darling, but I think they’ll fit you. We’re about the same size.”

It was true; Lawrence had grown to within an inch of his mother’s modest height; she had remained a tiny wisp of a woman with slender trim legs, a cute butt and smallish breasts. Lawrence tried on several skirts, before settling on a floral print layered skirt, white, with teal blue, yellow and some pink. His mother had to tuck it in about the waist, but otherwise it fit well, falling to about his knees.

She also broke open a new package containing a training bra, in a design matching his panties.

“Mommy, you planned this for me, didn’t you?”

“Yes, darling, I did. I have seen how much you enjoy doing the things other girls do, and you looked so happy, so I thought I’d see if you’d like it.”

“Oh mommy, how did you know?”

“A mother should know her child, and I could see what a sweet daughter you have been recently.”

He blushed, raising his finger to his lips in a coy motion.

“Besides, cutie, I know you’ve been into my stuff. You never fold them back properly.”

“Mommy, I’m sorry.”

“That’s OK my pet.”

They finished up the outfit with a purple peasant blouse with light pink piping. His mother produced a pair of flats, the kind the girls in school wore, and his put them on, marveling at how lovely his legs were.

“Now let’s do something with your hair,” his mother said.

“Oh mommy,” he said, brushing his hand across the front of his head. “How about bangs, like this?”

“And then straight hair, with a hair band over the top,” his mother suggested.

“Yes, mommy,” he said growing so excited.

His mother beckoned him to join her on the vanity stool, before the makeup mirror. She lightly tinted the area beneath his eyes, and darkened slightly his brows. She padded some powder on his face.

“See how it’s done honey?”

“I know mommy, I’ve watched you,” he said.

She then put lipstick on his lips, a light, almost natural tone. “Young girls don’t wear garish makeup, dear,” she told him.

He rubbed his lips together, as he’d seen him mother do hundreds of time.

“We’re mommy and daughter,” he said finally.

“Yes, my sweet,” his mother said, holding him tightly.

“We’re pretty,” he said.

And they were. Lawrence’s soft facial features and full lips were markedly feminine, and his mother, Lawrence knew, had always been a pretty women, slender and with a lovely milk-white complexion and light brown hair. Her features, too, were delicate. Mother and son also shared sparkling blue eyes, ever alert and cheerful in appearance. There was a softness that seemed to permeate both.

“What name shall we call you?” his mother asked.

“I need a girl’s name, mommy, since I’m a girl.”

“Laura?” his mother offered.

He scowled.

“Lolly?” she offered again.

“How about Heather?” he asked.

“Mmmmmm. You look like a Heather, I think.”

“Let me be Heather, mommy. OK?”

“OK, but this can only be between us, dear. In an hour, you’ll have to change back, and remember, don’t let your father know.”

“But mommy, I’m so pretty. Too bad daddy wouldn’t like Heather.”

*****
It had been a year since Lawrence had been dressed the first time by his mother. His father’s growing vocal concern about the boy’s lack of manliness forced them to limit their mother-daughter times to about once a month.

“Can I be Heather today?” Lawrence’s pestered constantly, only to have his mother warn that their father might learn of the charade and become even more upset.

“Just think if your father ever found out about Heather,” she reminded him. She tried to get him to act more boyishly, and even though the boy tried, he would easily slip into girlish mannerisms.

*****
It was two o’clock on a lovely summer afternoon and Lawrence was curled upon the sofa, having been deeply engrossed in “Pride and Prejudice” since mid-morning.

“Are you reading that book again, Lawrence?”

“Yes, mom. I like it.”

“Are you crying Lawrence?” she asked, seeing his reddened eyes.

“No, mom, my eyes are tired,” he lied.

“Don’t lie to me, Lawrence. You must be at the part where Elizabeth’s lovers leave the family.”

“I guess,” he nodded.

His mother moved to the couch, sitting next to him, and putting an arm around him, drawing him tightly to her. She kissed him gently on the forehead, running her hands through his long light brown hair. As a small child he had been blonde, and if his hair wasn’t trimmed, he often was mistaken for a little girl.

Lawrence let himself be drawn to her, welcoming her embraces and the familiar and faintly lilac scent from the soap she favored. He loved it when his mother hugged him, even though he knew he was getting too old for these long periods of affection between mother and son. In her arms, he felt safe from the demands of the outer world where he would have to fulfill his role as a boy and male in a hard world.

“Is this the third time you’ve read this book, darling?” his mother asked.

He nodded truly feeling embarrassed to have been caught reading this book for a third time. It was truly his favorite among all of his books, and he knew it was usually thought to be a girl’s book.

As if she knew what he was thinking, his mother spoke quickly to comfort him: “That’s OK my darling,” she said, still lightly running her fingers through his hair. “There’s nothing wrong with a boy having sweet thoughts and reading good books.”

“Mommy,” he said tentatively. His voice was soft, still high-pitched, as his voice still hadn’t changed; he spoke shyly, as if not sure of what he was about to say.

“I feel like Mary,” he said, admitting to his mother how much he identified with the girls in the book.

“You like Mary?” his mother asked, confused by the boy’s quiet comment.

“No, mommy,” he said, reverting a more childish version of addressing her. “Mommy, I feel I am Mary. You know, the shy daughter. The one who reads books?”

He blushed now at the admission, wishing he could take the words back, knowing that his mother would be mad, with him admitting how much he felt like a girl. She was constantly defending Lawrence against his father’s accusations that the boy was a “sissy,” a “coward,” a “wuss” and “wimp.” He wondered, too, if imagining himself as Mary was merely comparing his own personality as a boy who shied from playing with other boys and seemed to retire into the solitude of books and writing and often times quiet reflections.

His mother, however, merely hugged him a bit tighter, kissing his forehead again, as if protecting him from the cruel world.

“Mommy loves you darling,” she said.

His mother was quiet for a few moments and Lawrence retreated even more deeply into the warm comfort of his mother’s embraces.

Finally she said: “Oh but Mary’s not very pretty,” referring to the fact that the middle daughter was the most plain of the five Bennett girls in the book. “I think you’re more like Lydia.”

“The youngest girl mommy?”

“Yes, she’s so cute and pretty, just like you my precious.”

“Oh mommy, you’re teasing me now.” He laughed, happy to see that she seemed to taking his comments as a joke.

“Maybe, Lawrence, but if you want to be one of the daughters, why not pick out one of the pretty ones?”

“Mommy, I don’t want to be one of the girls. I just said I kinda like Mary, ‘cause she’s like me, I guess.”

“I thought you wanted to be Heather,” his mother said, jokingly referring to the few times she had helped Lawrence dress as a teen girl whom they named “Heather.”

“I do, mommy. I am Heather, but I’m kinda like Mary, too.”

“Ok, little girl, but enough of this,” his mother said. “I need to get ready for work, and I need you to help me fix some supper for your father.”

*****
When Lawrence turned 12, Dorothy Collins resumed the waitressing career she interrupted when Lawrence was born. She returned to the German restaurant she had worked at when she met Larry Sr.

“The tips are great, Larry,” she told her husband when he objected.

“We don’t need the money and you should remain home.”

“Larry, you know we need a new car and new furniture, and Lawrence will need help going to college.”

In the end, her husband relented, agreeing the extra money would be helpful. He did give her a warning: “No fooling around with those salesmen!”

Dorothy remembered how attracted he had been to her when they first met as waited on his table. And, she knew she still looked particularly fetching in the waitress outfit, its full flowing peasant skirt, square shaped low-cut bodice and puffed sleeves. In her late 30s now, Dorothy still retained the youthful freshness that seemed to tantalize persons she met.

She left for work at 5 p.m., just about the time Larry Sr. was due home. It was agreed that she would prepare a supper for him and that Lawrence would serve it. She had hoped that with father and son forced to spend time together that Larry Sr. might grow closer to his son.

For a while, an uneasy relationship developed, with father attempting to interest his son in a baseball game, or maybe a trip to the golf driving range and to the game shop. Lawrence, grateful for his father’s attention, tried hard to enjoy those times, but his lack of physical coordination and general weakness betrayed his ineptness and brought out his father’s impatience.

“Just keep your eye on the ball, Lawrence,” his father would repeat over and over as the boy whiffed or dribbled the golf ball off the tee.

The straw that broke the camel’s back came one beautiful June night when a golfer at the next tee spot suggested: “Sir, those clubs look a little heavy for him. Maybe he should try women’s clubs for now.”

It was an innocent suggestion made to be helpful, since many boys when they first begin to golf often hit better with women’s clubs that are shorter and lighter and easier to swing. Larry Sr. took the suggestion angrily, and still feeling the effects of his after-work beers, said in a loud voice: “Mind your own business. He’ll hit like a boy if it kills me.”

“Sorry sir,” the man and tall middle-aged golfer who had been belting the ball out over 250 yards. “Just trying to be helpful. That’s how I taught my son, and now he beats me.”

“Well, I’ll teach him my way,” his father shot back.

“Ok, ok, have it your way, sorry.”

“You better be sorry, calling my son a girl,” his father’s anger now rose as his face reddened.

Lawrence was stunned by the exchange, and started to say, “Dad, he might be right. These clubs are a bit . . .”

“Shut up, Lawrence. I‘ll handle this.”

His father walked over to the man, fists clenched.

“Daddy, please,” Lawrence begged his father, tears beginning to roll down his face.

The incident ended with the golf pro intervening; he knew Larry Sr. and liked him, and he was able to calm him down.

“Let’s go Lawrence,” his father said, grabbing his son’s slender wrist and leading them off the golf tee and heading for the car.

His father said nothing on the way home, retiring to his den to watch television, leaving Lawrence to his own. Larry Sr. never mentioned the incident again, but their father-son expeditions ceased, with the nightly routine finding Larry Sr. in his den watching television or doing his union work while his son cleaned up the kitchen, before retreating to his room. He began finding joy in this period, often humming to himself as he washed the dishes and wondering what it would be like to be a housewife.

To help his mother, Lawrence took on more and more responsibility in preparing supper, setting the table and doing the dishes.

His father showed little gratitude for Lawrence’s efforts, offering grunts of thanks and soon calling him “Laura” in mocking the boy’s chores which he considered “women’s work.”

Dorothy saw this happening but the money at the restaurant was good; she was a popular waitress and easily gained advances from men of all ages; as a skilled waitress, she was skilled in fending them off diplomatically. In truth, though, she enjoyed the attention and the knowledge that she still was a lovely woman. She had felt Larry Sr. had not been particularly attentive in the last few years and she welcomed a chance to be out of the house and avoiding Larry Sr.’s post-tavern grumpiness.

*****
In his room at night, Lawrence found himself dreaming constantly about being “Heather,” growing excited at the prospect that he could become a pretty cheerleader. Reality, however, dashed those dreams, first because he admitted that he could never be as strong and athletic as the girl cheerleaders were, and secondly, because, well, “I’m a boy.”

The summer promised to be a long and boring one for Lawrence; too young to get a job and without any real friends, the days would be long and uneventful. The boy, however, was not prone to sleeping late or to laziness; he had a restless streak, and he soon busied himself by doing the household chores, including the laundry, dusting, vacuuming and window washing.

One day in June, his mother rewarded Lawrence for all his household work by letting him dress as “Heather” for a while. He put on his mother’s old denim mini skirt and a sleeveless tee shirt. Dorothy also found a pair of pink tennis shoes in the back of her closet for him to wear and tied his hair into two short pigtails with light yellow ribbons. She even let him wear a pair of lace panties and a matching bra, stuffed with socks.

“My, aren’t you the pretty one?” his mother told him the first time he was dressed in that outfit.

Lawrence walked about, exaggerating the swing of his hips and giggling.

“I’m not letting you out in that,” she said, also with a laugh. “You’ll have every boy in town at your heels.”

A glance in the mirror told him she was right. He had the smooth, slender legs of a fashion model, tiny ankles, gently giving way to slightly curvy calves, pretty knees and a hint of soft thigh.

These were happy moments for Dorothy and Lawrence, then known briefly as Heather. But Dorothy knew she better not encourage a trip into femininity for her son; he was too vulnerable and there’d be hell to pay from Larry Sr. Besides, she knew that life for an effeminate boy or one who was interested as living as a woman would be difficult. Lawrence, she knew, was a bright student and had lots of promise, and she worried his feminine tendencies might stifle his very real potential.

One night, Larry Sr. took notice of how neat the house had become, and praised his wife for the “sparkling way” she kept house; when Dorothy was poised to say that Lawrence was responsible, the boy shot his mother a glance, warning her not to let on that the boy had been doing the housework. Such knowledge would have pushed his father into a tirade about Lawrence doing “girl’s work.” (To be continued)