Merritt Lane McGraw feels he is a girl at a time of Great Depression and World War II. It is a period before the words “crossdresser” and “transgender” were in the vocabulary and a time before sexual assignment surgery was a possibility. This story with historical background tells how this lovely child’s desires bring both shame and joy to himself, his family and his friends

(The Story Thus Far: Born out of wedlock in 1929, Merritt Lane McGraw is about to enter kindergarten; he has spent nearly all of his first five years with his mother while she worked as a live-in maid and nanny for a wealthy young widow and her two daughters. Merritt’s mother, Evelyn, found herself in a torrid love affair with Viola Buckner, her employer, while the women’s daughters loved to treat Merritt as a little girl. Merritt was becoming more and more like a girl and the boy appears to find it natural. To escape the demanding sexual encounters with her employer (which Evelyn feels is sinful) and to take her son away from the feminine atmosphere of the estate, Evelyn left the Buckners and returned home to live with her parents. She soon married Bob Casey, the library clerk and former high school classmate, and they have moved into a second floor apartment above a craft and sewing supply store. Merritt’s days of enjoying “girl time” appear to have ended now that there’s a man in the house.

(Merritt’s stepfather has gone off to war, assigned to a Navy amphibious ship engaged in combat, while the family awaits in nervous expectation to his return him. Merritt’s mother meantime has taken a job in a war plant making parachutes, and Merritt takes over her dress-making business, which he finds to be a natural fit. Note: Chapter 13 contains some historical references with links to assist the reader.)

Chapter 13: News from the Front

After three days at sea, Radioman Third Class Robert Xavier Casey had finally been able to adjust his stomach to the constant irregular bouncing of the LST as the vessel had made its way across the Pacific for San Diego to its staging area just before a planned attack on the Tarawa atoll in the Gilbert Islands. Of course, Casey didn’t know such a landing was in the offing, only that the job of the ship was to transport newly built LVTs (Landing Vehicle Tracked), which were true amphibious vehicles, able to move equally well in water and on land. The LVTs had been loaded hurriedly in San Diego; apparently they were needed for some reason for action where their special characteristics were critical.

It had been a long trip, nearly three weeks, and the awkward, ill-shaped ship took every wave with a shudder. LSTs (or Landing Ship Tanks) were built as their name implied to carry tanks and other vehicles close to shore, and usually give them a dry ramp upon which to drive onto the beach. Thus, the ships had a flat bottom, making them less sleek in cutting through the waves of the Pacific.

“I always knew war is supposed to be hell, but I didn’t know that meant constant nausea,” he confided one day early in the trip to Seaman Cletus Lockwood, a wiry boy off an Iowa farm who served as the ship’s other radio operator.

“We’ll get used to it, I guess,” Lockwood said. “At least that’s what Boats said.”

The boy referred to Boatswain’s Mate First Class Ellsworth Hughes, a career Navy man, who may have been the most experienced sailor on the ship, even more so than the ship’s captain, Lt. Comdr. Bill Nelson who was a recent law school graduate from the University of Minnesota. Just about everyone deferred to “Boats” when it came to decisions about ship-handling. Hughes, his mid-South mountain accent still swirling in his speech, was quick and ready with sure answers. No one questioned Boats, least of all a mere Third Class Radioman like Casey.

LST 164 was part of a convoy of half a dozen other LSTs, escorted by destroyers, and it had made the trip without incident by the time of its arrival in the midst of a huge convoy of other Navy ships off the coast of the Tarawa atoll at just as dusk on Nov. 19, 1943.

“We’re in for something big,” commented Lockwood. “Boats has even relieved us of some of our regular duties and ordered all of us to try to get as much sleep as possible. He said ‘tomorrow may be a long day.’”

“Obviously a landing,” Casey said, having read some of the messages about the successful attack and takeover on Makin Island, another Gilbert Island Japanese base, about ten days earlier.

“Yeah, we know that,” his friend said. “But all I think we do is help launch these LVTs, and make sure the Marines get off OK.”

“I hope the Japs don’t know we’re out here.”

“We’ve heard no firing yet,” Lockwood smiled.

“We’re ten miles off shore, and unless the Japs send out aircraft, I don’t think we’ll be bothered.”

“Let’s hope so.”

Casey was awakened by far-away explosions about 3 in the morning, and soon he heard the boatswain’s pipe send out “reveille,” the shrill tone jarring every sailor, many so nervous they had only fitful sleep during the evening. The LST was pitching in a moderately rough sea as Casey hurried up to the radio shack to assume his duties, now barely noticing the rough role.

Activity in the tank deck below was hectic as the sailors began readying for the launch of the LVTs; the handful of Marines on board were to pilot the craft. The excitement in the air was obvious, and Casey walked through the tank deck on way to the radio room with mixed emotions, one wishing he was joining in the attack because of the anticipated excitement and the other realizing his role in the radio room could be as vital to the success of the operation as any one’s job.

The order to disembark the LVTs came at 4:45 a.m.; the amphibious craft it was learned then were to face a ten-mile water trip to reach the attack site. That meant the craft would carry Marines that were to be transferred at sea from larger landing craft.

Casey had just relieved the radioman from the mid-watch when he was surprised to see the Comdr. Nelson (the ship’s captain) and a Marine captain at the hatch to the radio room.

“Casey, you’re assigned to the attack force,” Cmdr. Nelson ordered. “He’ll outfit you with battle gear.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Casey said, puzzled and surprised.

“Lockwood will relieve you here, and when he does you’re to report to Captain Masterson here on the tank deck.”

“Yes, sir, but what are my duties?”

“You’re the best radioman we have, and you’re to ride with the captain here and work the portable radio. They need someone who knows what he’s doing.”

“Yes sir,” he said.

In a minute, Lockwood arrived to relieve him; he too was puzzled by Casey’s new assignment.

“Did they ask you to volunteer?” he wondered.

“No, Captain Nelson just ordered me to go.”

“Do you want to go? It’ll be dangerous.”

“I guess, but I worry about Evelyn and Merritt back home. I keep telling them I have a safe duty.”

“We’re not that safe, Bob. Remember Jap subs out there and enemy bombings.”

“Safer than those Marines, I bet,” Casey said with a smile.

“And now you’re going with them.”

http://www.ibiblio.org/hyperwar/USMC/USMC-C-Tarawa/

*****
Back in Riverdale on November 19, Evelyn and Merritt sat together on the couch, reading the latest batch of “V-mail” letters from Casey. There were about six of them each written a day apart during the early part of Casey’s trip from San Diego. They came in the same mail, all carrying the “F.P.O. address from San Francisco.” http://www.skylighters.org/encyclopedia/vmail.html

“It’s so boring,” he wrote on the first of them. “We’re just out of port now on a long trip and I don’t know where. I just know we’ll be at sea a long time, and I’m battling seasickness. The Pacific seems unusually rough, but I know I’ll be over it in a few days. Got to get my sea legs back.

“It’s still been a boring trip. I even finished ‘War and Peace’ this time. I promised myself I would read that monster book. It makes me feel war can be so silly. (Then there was a sentenced which had been totally blackout by the censor.) They’re finally going to collect our mail here and I look forward to you letters.

“I love you darling and our sweet dear son, Merritt. May he never have to serve in another war after this one is over. Hugs and many kisses, my pumpkin face. Love, Bob”

Mother and son cried. She hadn’t seen her husband in over a year now. She yearned for him dearly, but, strangely, that was overshadowed by her growing desire to again be in the arms of Viola.

“Mommy, he’ll be OK,” Merritt said.

She held her son tightly, kissing him, relishing in the feel of his slender, almost fragile body and hoping against all hope that Bob was right: Merritt would never have to serve as a fighting man. The boy was too gentle, too sweet to take up arms, she knew.

*****
The doorbell rang at supper time early in December 1943.

“You better get that, Merritt. My hands are full with dinner.”

Merritt went to the buzzer to query into the speaker: “Who’s there?” The Casey residence entrance was at the back of the store building and had a speaker and buzzer system to regulate who could enter and come to the second floor.

“Western Union. I have a telegram for Mrs. Casey.”

“Mom,” Merritt screamed, immediately terrified over the contents of a telegram they might receive. “It’s Western Union, for you.”

“Well buzz him up, dear,” she said, almost automatically.

It took only an instant more for Evelyn to realize the potential news such a telegram might contain. “Oh no! Oh God, no. Please, please. Not our Bob.”

She opened the telegram slowly, as if to negate its message.

“The Secretary of the Navy deeply regrets to inform you that Radioman Third Class Robert Xavier Casey, Serial No. 325 20 68, has been killed in action on Nov. 20 . . .”

The message was brief and to the point. There were no details; did Bob suffer? Did he die in a hospital? Did he drown at sea? “Killed in action,” what did that mean? Evelyn thought he wouldn’t be in any direct action.

“What difference does it make?” Viola said later that night, having come over to comfort Evelyn and Merritt. “The facts won’t bring him back, honey.”

“I know, Vi, but he was such a sweet man, such a good man and was so good to me and Merritt.”

Viola hesitated not even a minute to offer to stop by when she got the phone call from Evelyn with the news. They sat together on the couch, holding hands. There would be no sex between the two women that night nor for many nights to follow. Both women knew they must respect the memory of Bob Casey.

Merritt cried himself to sleep that night; he couldn’t imagine what it feels like to die, to feel the pain of death. Never had he experienced a death of someone so close.

*****
In March, 1944, the family got a visit from a Navy Captain.

“You’re husband has been awarded the Navy Cross for heroism,” he announced, when entering the residence and joining them at the kitchen table.

“Oh?” was all Evelyn could say.

“We don’t even know how he died, sir,” Merritt added.

“Well, this will explain everything,” the captain said. He handed Evelyn a two-page document.

“I think you’ll see he was an extremely brave man, Mrs. Casey,” he added. “I must say I’m truly sorry this has to be awarded posthumously.”

Evelyn teared up as she opened the document. She began reading:

“Robert Xavier Casey is hereby recommended for the Navy Cross for heroism on November 20, 1944, in the battle for Tarawa Atoll in the Gilbert Islands.

“In temporary assignment as a radioman to Marine Corp Battalion 22, Casey distinguished himself by remaining with the LVT (Landing Vehicle Tracked) after its driver and squad leader was killed by enemy fire. Though he had been assigned to assist Captain Willard Masterson with radio duties and had little skill in operating the LVT, he assumed the controls to free the vehicle from the reef upon which it was stuck and as he maneuvered exposed himself to heavy enemy fire.

“With enemy shells bursting in the area, he finally freed the LVT from its perch and successfully piloted it to an opening in the reef barrier depositing the marines in the craft to the beach. He returned to the sea, piloting the LVT back through the gap in the reef, locating other LCVPs which were seeking to transfer their troops, taking two more loads to the beach, always under enemy fire.

“Returning to the sea for a third time, he ran out of fuel, and wallowed near shore when an enemy shell destroyed the LVT, causing Radioman Casey to be killed. He died instantly.

“Robert Xavier Casey acted in the highest traditions of the U. S. Navy and acted without regard to his personal safety to help make the difficult landing at Tarawa Atoll.”

The signer of the commendation was the Secretary of the Navy.

*****
Two nights later, Merritt had a dream, a pretty dream, so sweet and gentle and so real. He dreamt that his stepfather was returning from the war in his Navy blues and that he and his mother met him as he got off the train at the Milwaukee Road station in town.

He saw Bob Casey with a widening grin on his face as the two approached him, his lovely wife and their dainty daughter, both wearing spring dresses of yellow and green.

Merritt felt himself in the arms of his stepfather and receiving soft kisses, and hearing his words: “My little girl is prettier than ever. So grown up. I bet the boys are all over you.”

“Oh daddy,” protested the little girl, now a slender, blond 14 year old, looking so cute.

Too soon the dream ended and Merritt awoke, his room still cool in the chill of early spring. He awoke smiling, so happy that he was “that little girl”, wrapping his arms about himself to ward of the chill. He was cold in his a light yellow nightie with only shoulder straps.

Soon, he realized that he wasn’t a girl and that his “daddy” would not be returning home.

The reality was that he lived outwardly as a boy most of the time, his mother succumbing to his nagging to dress as a girl by allowing him to sleep in a nightie and to dress on Saturdays if there would be no one around to see him.

The dream haunted him, though. Finally, several days later, as he finished getting ready for bed and was stepping into his nightie, his mother entered the room, as she often did. This was often a special moment for the two, as his mother would brush his hair; it was longer than most boys wore, but not too noticeable or out of fashion.

She called him “Marilyn” on those nights. He smelled of sweet soap and his voice was soft. They would lie together and the girlish boy would feel so weak and protected in his mother’s arm; he loved her smell, her softness and her gentle voice.

“You’re too old for us to be doing this, dear,” his mother said often.

“I know mommy, but I feel so good with you. We’re not hurting anyone,” he answered.

“But it’s still wrong honey.”

“We’re not doing anything wrong, mommy.”

It was true. They only hugged, and sometimes even fell asleep together, and Evelyn would arise in the middle of the night and return to her bed.

It was during those nights that Merritt began to experience regular erections. He had heard other boys talk about “jacking off,” at least that’s what he heard them say, perhaps a year before, but Merritt knew his growth had been slower than most boys. His penis was small, compared to most he saw in the gym locker room, and he was embarrassed, always dressing to shield his puny penis from stares of other boys.

It was only after his mother left the room that he would ejaculate, usually spurred on by her parting “sleep tight, dear Marilyn.” And, he would lay there, his hardening penis pressed against the nightie’s cloth, and thinking he was a lovely girl, and he would gush forth, staining the nightie and the bed. After the first such “accident” he began sneaking a towel into bed with him to contain the milky fluid. He loved those moments, dreaming of being a high school girl, giggling with the other girls and prancing about in dainty dresses and teasing the boys. He never thought of himself as a boy, and the idea of making love to a girl scared him. How do you do it, he wondered.

“Would daddy have cared if I was a girl, mommy?” he asked one night several days after his dream.

“He loved you, honey, and he would have loved you either way,” she reassured him.

“I think he wanted me to be a girl, mommy.”

“I don’t think so, dear. You know he was trying to make you more of a boy when he entered the Navy.”

“Maybe,” he said, hesitating before continuing. “But I had a dream and he called me his ‘little girl.’”

“You had a dream.”

“Yes, he called me ‘Marilyn,’ just like you do.”

“Oh honey, that was just a dream,” his mother said. “He would have wanted whatever was best for you.”

Merritt said nothing, but the thought never left him: his beloved stepfather loved him as “Marilyn” and his “little girl.” He was indeed, he felt, a girl, but most of the world would never know that.

Chapter 14: Budding Friendships

To the outside world, Merritt was a boy; he worked hard at strengthening his muscles so that he could compete more completely. He even tried to find friends among some boys, with some success, while slowly reducing his time with Donna Mae and Edith. Besides, they were becoming “boy crazy,” and Merritt obviously didn’t fit their definition of a “boy friend.” They had grown to think of him as only another girl friend. The three remained good friends, but the shopping trips and the stops at the soda fountain became fewer and fewer.

When he finished 9th Grade, he realized, he’d be going into high school, a prospect that frightened him; the other boys would be larger, stronger and so much worldlier than he was. Other boys yell, and taunt each other; they push and shove and punch each other in the arm. He hated that.

Each afternoon and Saturdays, of course, Merritt spent in the sewing room at Swenson’s, working on repairing dresses and other works taken in by Hilda Swenson and his mother. If there were alterations, the two women fitted and marked-up the garments, leaving them to be fashioned by Merritt. Surprisingly, there were few problems; both women were skilled in fitting clothes, and Merritt’s skill with the sewing machine had become so precise and speedy.

“I marvel at how the boy can turn these items out,” Hilda said to Evelyn one day. “He’s easily the best seamstress I’ve ever had.”

“I know it surprises me, Hilda, but I think he loves doing it.”

“Sometimes, I think he should be a girl, Evelyn. He even moves like a girl sometimes.”

“I know, but he never was much for boy things, but we hope he’ll grow out of this.”

“Right,” Hilda nodded. “Not all men have to be crude.”

“I guess not,” Evelyn said. “He’s certainly not crude.”

*****
“Mom, where are you?” Merritt yelled from the kitchen. “Mom, tell me how I look?”

“Be right there, honey, I'm getting ready for work and I have to catch the bus,” she yelled from her bedroom.

“Hurry, mom,” he urged.

He had worried about how he looked for the first day of high school, as he entered the 10th Grade. He was headed for Riverdale West, a four-story, red brick structure dating to the 1890s, but with a brand new addition containing a gym. Despite its ancient appearance, the school was considered the “jewel” of the city system, both in academics and in its athletic teams, particularly the football team, which were perennial champions of the tough city league and sent many players off to star in colleges.

Evelyn was out of breath as she entered his room, exhausted from preparing a breakfast for the two and dressing herself for the job in the hosiery works. The pace of the work in making parachutes had told on her; she had lost some weight, yet she still retained the cherubic look of a women many years younger than herself. She wore dark slacks, a beige work blouse that buttoned in front and a multicolored scarf tied tightly around her head. She wore no noticeable lipstick.

“Now what must I see?” she asked.

“Mom, do I look OK for school?”

“Of course you do.”

“I don't want to look too dressed up,” he said, adding, “You know how kids make fun of that.”

Evelyn examined her son. He looked neat and clean, and was dressed in dark blue slacks and a blue shirt with a collar.

“You look fine, honey. It's the first day of school, and you want to look sharp for your teachers. They won't like a slob.”

“I know mom, but what will other kids say?” he said.

In truth, Evelyn didn't know how her son, always fastidious in his clothes and appearance would be viewed by kids, who she knew to be often so cruel in their judgments.

“I think they'll say you look handsome, dear,” she assured him. “The girls will like it.”

“Oh mom, don't,” he protested.

Despite his mother's reassurances, Merritt still was not certain he'd fit in. He still felt he looked too puny, with his slight shoulders and slender build, perhaps a candidate for more chuckles behind his back, or, even worse, some rough bullying.

Merritt was early for his homeroom assignment, easily finding his way to room 202, where he was assigned Miss Gottschalk as his homeroom teacher. There were only three others seated at desks, all girls who were tidily arranging papers on their desktops.

“Take any seat, young man,” the youngish, slender woman at the door said. “I'm Miss Gottschalk, your homeroom teacher.”

“Thank you ma'am,” Merritt replied.

The teacher's face beamed into a smile that the boy found most appealing. He felt a little less tense now, as he took his seat in the middle row, third seat back. Another girl with light brown flowing hair, and wearing a pressed white blouse and a plaid skirt, took a front seat, and Merritt wondered if she would be the “teacher's pet.” The girl eyed Merritt closely as he entered, while the two other girls sat in the rear, chattering softly, paying no attention to the newcomer.

Merritt sat primly, his two feet planted firmly on the floor, knees together, awaiting the class to begin. Slowly, others entered, most paying no attention to him; he did notice the girl in the front sneaking glances in his direction, and he wondered what she was thinking: was he weird looking? too skinny? maybe a sissy? But, few others paid him any attention, so maybe, he told himself in hopeful expectation that she is just curious.

Miss Gottschalk entered the room, as a few latecomers followed, including Billy Johnson, his onetime friend from junior high school. One of the few remaining seats was directly behind Merritt, and the boy took it.

“Hey nice seeing you, Merritt,” Billy said, as he took his seat, breathless, obviously from running to get their before the bell.

“You're the only one I see from our class,” Merritt said, turning his head to greet his onetime friend.

“Yes, this is the 'J' through 'M' homeroom, I guess,” Billy said.

The bell rang, quickly ending their conversation, as Miss Gottschalk yelled for attention from the class.

“Welcome to Riverdale West, students,” she said. “We're off and running on a new school year, and all of you are new to this school. This is Homeroom 202, and we'll meet every morning for ten minutes; usually I'll take roll and have some announcements. Most of the time will be 'quiet time,' when you can spend a few minutes in last minute studies. But, there'll be no talking. And, if you have any questions, or concerns, feel free to raise your hand and ask it. Finally, I'll always be here early, so if you need any advice, just come in a few minutes before homeroom and we can talk. OK? Any questions?”

There were none, and she read the first class day announcements.

“She seemed nice,” Billy said as the class ended and students began searching out the location of their first hour classes, some stopping by to ask Miss Gottschalk.

“Yes,” Merritt answered. “I hope all the teachers are nice.”

“I'm so glad you're in my homeroom, Merritt,” Billy said.

“Oh?”

Merritt wondered about the other boy's renewed interest. Wasn't this the same boy who in junior high school ditched him and the two girls for the gang of toughs?

“What's your first class?” Billy asked.

“Ah, it's geometry.”

“Mine, too. You also with Mr. Grant in 415?”

“Yes, Billy.”

“Call me Bill, now,” the boy said. “Good, then we can go together.”

Thus, began a friendship with Bill Johnson, who, as Merritt soon learned, had never felt at home among the gang boys. In fact, Bill admitted to Merritt some days later, the gang boys had taunted him as well when he wouldn't go along on an excursion to “de-pants” the Student Council president who they claimed was too close to the principal. They called him a “fairy” for speaking out against rowdyism that happened at a recent football game and the plan was to attack the senior boy as he left school late one day after a school activity, and pin him to the ground, remove his pants and raise the pants on the flagpole in front of school. (Note: “De-pantsing” was a favored form of hazing in the 1940s.)

Bill Johnson had grown to be a bit taller than Merritt, but had developed a lanky, loose-jointed body. He was moderately muscular, but was not active in any of the sports teams, like Merritt, and they found great kinship in talking about “the great questions of the day,” such as whether President Roosevelt was doing enough to end the war soon, or should there be a world government, like the League of Nations formed after the war, or whether there was a god.

“We were just talking mom,” Merritt said one autumn Saturday night when he got home 30 minutes after his mother's imposed curfew hour of 11 p.m.

“You're sure? Not fooling around with girls?” she quizzed.

“No, mom, honest. Bill and I were just standing on the corner near his house talking, and I guess we lost track of time.”

Evelyn shook her head; she had trouble figuring out what her son would find so interesting just “talking” with another boy. Yet, Merritt had never done anything to show he was not telling the truth.

Meanwhile, Merritt continued to work in the sewing room of the Swenson's shop, altering dresses and even sewing a few. He found great joy in the creativeness of his projects, often trying on the clothes himself, partly to see how well they might hang but, in reality, to enjoy the thrill of seeing how he would look in the dress. He loved the idea, and he told himself, that such viewings would inspire his own creativity. He had two distinct feelings: one of arousal as his smallish penis would grow erect and sometimes begin to hurt in a need to be released and the other of wishing he was a girl.

It wasn't until Christmas vacation season that he finally admitted to his friend Bill that his after school job at Swenson's had far more to it than stocking shelves and cleaning up, as he had said before. As far as Merritt could tell no one, except Donna Mae and Edith, his two girl friends who now attended Our Lady of Angels Catholic Girls' Academy, and the Swensons and his own mother, knew he really worked as a seamstress.

“You do?” Bill answered when Merritt told him.

“Yes, Bill, and I hope you don't find that too weird,” Merritt said, blushing. The two were in Bill's bedroom where Bill had invited Merritt to look at his model houses. His friend wanted to be an architect and had actually created two model houses of his own design from balsa wood.

“Well, it's different,” Bill replied, after some hesitation.

“It was to help out while mom worked at the hosiery factory,” he explained hurriedly. “It was her business and we needed the money, and I guess I got good at it.”

“I think it's OK, Merritt,” Bill said sincerely.

“Really?”

“Yes, just don't tell others.”

“Don't worry about that,” Merritt said. “I've kept it a secret, 'cause I know I'd get teased. So far only Donna Mae and Edith know, but they won't tell.”

His friend smiled at him, a knowing smile, Merritt felt.

“Do you ever wear the dresses after you make them?” Bill asked suddenly.

Merritt merely blushed, and looked toward one of his friend's model houses; they were masterpieces and Merritt could see Bill had an artistic nature.

“You do, don't you?” his friend finally said.

Merritt nodded.

“Bet you're pretty,” the boy said.

“Aww, come on.”

“No, really, I bet you are, and don't worry, I won't tell anyone.”

“Please don't Bill,” Merritt pleaded. “I'm doing OK in high school now, and I don't need to be teased again.”

“Oh, I won't, Merritt. Cross my heart.”

Merritt smiled. “Thank you.”

“What do ya wanna do? How about going ice skating?”

Merritt agreed that would be a good idea. It was a cold clear winter day, and they expected lots of friends would be at Washington Park lagoon. Besides, Merritt had received a new pair of hockey skates for Christmas and was eager to try them out.

*****
Bill Johnson was the first friend, other than Donna Mae and Edith that Merritt ever invited to their apartment above Swenson's.

It was two days after Merritt revealed to Bill that he worked as a seamstress, and the two boys seemed to have found a bond, a closeness in which both shared their feelings and secrets. It was the first time in his life he ever could tell how fearful he was of his life in the future; and, Merritt was shocked to find out that Bill Johnson, too, had similar feelings. Neither boy felt confident that they could find a good job to support themselves, or to find a girl who would want them as husbands and fathers. It was a fearful world they would enter, they both agreed.

They found comfort in each other, in sharing their secrets. Soon they began sharing their dreams, Bill Johnson of becoming an architect building fancy houses and Merritt, more or less fabricating his desires, stating he hoped to be a journalist, covering foreign wars and exciting incidents. He was yet to reveal to Bill his real desire: the impossible dream of being a woman, married with children.

“What are you doing today, Merritt?” It was Bill, calling on the phone just before noon on New Years Day.

“Just finishing up on some work here,” Merritt answered. “Should be done about one o'clock. You wanna do something?”

“How about it?”

“Come on over then and we can figure something out, Bill.”

Bill arrived about 2 p.m. while Merritt's mother was out for the afternoon, enjoying a day of shopping with Viola. The two women had been spending more and more time together, and Merritt expected they'd be gone all afternoon.

“Wow, what a nice apartment?” Bill said, upon entering the second floor living room.

“Thank you, I helped mom decorate it, too,” Merritt said, genuinely pleased because he knew of his friend's appreciation of decorating and design.

Bill's eyes roamed around the room, spotting the lace covered shades and the light blue diaphanous curtains, which gave the room a light, airy appearance. The boy noticed each of the curtains were trimmed with lace.

“The lace gives a nice touch,” Bill said. “Was that your idea?”

Merritt blushed. “Yes. Don't you like that?”

“Oh yes,” his friend said. “It's a nice touch. So . . . ah . . . ah . . . light.”

Merritt knew what his friend was thinking, that the lace design touch was a “feminine” touch. “I thought it gave a nice look to the room,” he said. “Mom had a more plain idea of design; I guess I just enhanced it a bit.”

“Really, Merritt, it's nice.”

“What do'ya wanna do, Bill?” Merritt asked.

“I dunno. Maybe you could show me some of the dresses and stuff you're doing,” he said tentatively.

“You really want to?” Merritt said. “I didn't know you'd want to see that girl stuff. It's just my job.”

“Sure, why not?” his friend replied. “Don't you think I have a good eye for design?”

“No, of course, you do, Bill, but it's just dresses and stuff.”

“Show me.”

Merritt had two dresses hanging in his room; Mrs. Swenson had provided him with an older sewing machine which he often used in his room, making it unnecessary to go downstairs to the workroom to do some of his work.

“This is your room?” Bill asked, astonished at what he saw.

The only window had oversized curtains, carrying the same design and lace trim as the ones in the living room, also containing lace trim. Only, these curtains were white; a similarly designed skirt was hung around a table, looking very much like a vanity with mirror attached. The bed spread was white with pink ruffles.

“Yes,” Merritt replied.

“But . . .” his friend began to question.

Merritt interrupted his question, quickly explaining: “I know it looks like a girl's room, but I still like it. Who needs cars and airplanes and Wisconsin football pennants around the room.”

“Sit down,” Merritt said, pointing to the bench -- also trimmed with lace -- that sat before the vanity.

He sat on his bed, sitting a bit to one side, and curling his legs up. He brushed his hair back with a light swipe of his hand.

“You really like this girl stuff, don't you Merritt?” his friend finally asked.

“I don't know if it's girl stuff, exactly. I just like this design and the colors.”

“OK,” said his friend, his eyes roving the room, before lighting upon two dresses hung on the inside of the open door to the closet. “Are those the dresses?”

“Yes,” Merritt said, getting up from the bed, and lifting a dark blue dress off the door to show his friend.

“Wow is that nice,” Bill said. “I like the use of those little floral touches of cloth.”

“Thank you. This is a gown for a girl who's going to the debutante ball on Saturday,” he said, holding it up against his body. “I had to let it out a bit; I think she gained a little weight since mom took the measurements.”

“Who designed it?”

“Mainly me,” he said. “Mom told me what the girl wanted and I drew up the pattern and the girl loved it.”

“Let me see how it really looks, Merritt,” Bill said suddenly. “Try it on for me.”

Merritt looked at him, not knowing how to respond. “Try it on?” he asked.

“Yes, let's see how you look in it,” the boy said, smiling.

Merritt didn't know how to respond to his look; the boy had a strange look, one that seemed full of expectation.

“Oh, I couldn't,” he responded. “I might tear it.”

“Oh, come on, what are you afraid of?” his friend answered. “It's just you and me. I bet you've already worn it.”

Merritt blushed. Yes, he had worn it, as he had many of the dresses he made; usually he told himself he wore them merely to see how they would look when worn, whether a hem might be crooked, or some other obvious defect detected. He had worn this dress several times; indeed, when he first created it, he wore it several times, since it fit him so well. The young woman's measurements were very close to his own; with some breast enhancement, he fit neatly and attractively into the dress. Now, the dress would be somewhat larger.

“Yes, Merritt, I know you've worn it,” Bill pressed. “Let me see.”

Merritt told his friend to leave the bedroom so that he could dress. “I need to show the dress off properly,” he said, “So, I need time to get ready. You can start on our homework in the kitchen. Mom won't be home 'til 5 p.m. at least.”

Merritt's pride in the dress design meant that he had to show off the dress in it best context; he had to look as completely feminine as possible to do so. Merritt wanted to show his design-oriented friend that his own creations were as spectacular and excellent as the models of homes the boy had constructed.

It took all of a half hour for Merritt to prepare himself for putting on the dress; he washed his upper body in a sweet-smelling soap, brushed his longish hair, found a light blue hair band and a pair of clip-on earrings with a blue stone. He put on a bra, stuffing it with hose and a corset with snaps, which he used to affix hosiery.

Examining himself in the bedroom mirror over his vanity, he felt he had achieved a sufficiently girlish look. His narrow shoulders, slender arms and tiny waist seemed to render him as any other 16-year-old girl. He smiled, and did a partial pirouette to celebrate the look.

He put the dress on over his head, letting it fall neatly into place. The dress had a square bodice, with light multiple layers of cloth; scattered throughout the dress were light bows of cloth, and the dress ended at mid-thigh. Merritt hoped the girl for whom it was intended had lovely thighs, since they would show. His own thighs were lovely as were the gentle curve of his calves and thin ankles. He wore a pair of dark blue pumps, with two-inch heels. The dress was sleeveless and Merritt knew his own arms were slender and remarkable for their softness and lack of muscle tone.

As a final touch, he applied light rouge to his cheeks, a bit of eyeliner and bright red lipstick. He smiled at his image in the mirror.

Merritt entered the kitchen where his friend was making a show of doing homework, announcing:

“Here she is!”

He gave a quick turn-around so as to give Bill a quick look at the young lady before him.

“She's so lovely,” Bill said, after what seemed an eternity.

“You like?” Merritt asked, his voice assuming a thin, soft tone he had adapted when he liked to pretend he was girl.

“Do I like?” Bill replied. “Do I like? You're beautiful. Are you sure this is Merritt, or some girl you brought over?”

“It's me, dear,” Merritt answered in flirting tone.

Merritt dreamed of this moment when he would show himself off as a girl to another boy; he was so happy to finally have found someone he thought he could trust due to his friendship with Bill Johnson. Merritt seemed to lose himself in his girlishness at the moment, walking over to his friend, and presenting a hand to beckon him to rise from the chair to be led into the living room.

Bill took Merritt hand, as he would take a girl's soft, slender hand, and let himself be led to the living room couch, where the two sat down next to each other.

“Merritt,” Bill said. “You're the prettiest girl. I can't believe it.”

“Call me Marilyn,” Merritt responded, leaning his body against his friend who still held onto his hand.

Merritt felt his friend's arm go over his shoulder, onto his slender arm; he felt himself being pulled toward the boy and he raised his head in expectation. Soon they were kissing passionately.

“Oh Marilyn, Marilyn,” Bill said. He was fidgeting wildly, and Merritt knew his friend’s penis was hardening. His own had been hard since he led Bill to the couch.

Merritt felt he was in heaven; never had he felt so desired, so wanted, as he did now in Bill Johnson's arms. Bill wanted him as a girl. He felt his friend's excitement grow; finally ending with a gasp.

“Oh darn,” Bill said. “I need to clean myself up.”

Merritt smiled.

He supplied Bill with a pair of briefs to wear and his friend went to the bathroom to clean himself up, as Merritt returned to his own bedroom, reluctantly, to return to boyhood.

Later as the pair shared a Coke at the local drugstore's soda fountain, Bill whispered. “You're the first girl I ever kissed.”

Merritt smiled. “And you're the first boy I ever kissed.”

“As Marilyn, I'll want you again,” his friend admitted.

“But I'm not a girl,” Merritt said.

“You are now to me,” Bill said, his smile now sweet and adoring.

Merritt had never felt so wanted, so desired. He wanted so much to be demure, sweet, soft and feminine and to his friend, Bill, he must have achieved that.

*****
Some of their friends at Riverdale West High School, they knew, had dates for the evening of New Years Eve; others were going to a party at Barbara Wingstead's, one of the “richer” kids who lived in a large house atop a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan. Both Bill and Merritt had been invited, but the party was viewed as being “square,” with the Wingstead parents keeping a watchful eye for any youthful indiscretions.

Bill seemed eager to go, even though the so-called “in” crowd would not be there. Merritt who was battling his image of being “square” and a “sissy” felt awkward attending the party, not because he had anything against Barbara Wingstead, who was viewed as a “goody two-shoes,” but just because it would further taint him for being “just not one of the boys.”

“I could take you as my date,” Bill said, as the two exited the drugstore and into the near zero-cold of Dec. 31.

The boy had a mischievous glint in his eye.

Merritt loved the idea, but knew it was impossible, since most of the people would know him.

“I would lu -a -v that dah-ling,” Merritt replied in an exaggerated faux feminine voice.

“You must wear that lovely gown, Marilyn,” Bill replied, carrying on the play-acting role. “I'll pick you up at eight.”

“Oh, you're so strong, my Bill,” Merritt continued, raising his head toward Bill, pursing his lips as if to kiss.

Bill backed away. “Not out here in the street. People will think we're homos.”

“But, I'm a girl, and you're a boy,” Merritt responded, using his feminine inflections. “How can we be queer?”

“You're cute,” Bill said, pushing his friend gently away.

“I guess I'll stay home tonight, Bill,” he said. “Mom and I'll listen to the dance band programs from New York and Chicago as the New Year comes in. Maybe we'll play canasta, too.”

“I know, Marilyn,” Bill continued, persistent on using the feminine name. “I have to baby-sit my sister anyway.”

“I loved everything today,” Merritt said. “But, I guess it's wrong.”

“Wrong? Yes, I guess it is, but it's just between the two of us, Merritt,” Bill said seriously.

“Yes. I wouldn't want this to get out.”

The boys parted company, each with their dreams. Were they impossible dreams?