After high school, my parents expected me to go to college. My grades weren't good enough for a university, so I attended community college. Some classes were mildly interesting, but none grabbed me. So I was a mediocre student at best. My dad was constantly on my case: I had the IQ to do better and I was wasting my talents. The one thing I liked about college was the girls, but none of them liked me.

In March of my sophomore year, my father was doing yard work when he had a heart attack and died before the ambulance arrived. We'd never gotten along well, but I still loved him. I thought now I'd never be able to make him proud of me. While I hadn't been motivated before, now I stopped giving a shit and wound up flunking half my classes.

My mom was not happy. I was told to get a job. I sat around the house for a month, mostly playing games. One day she yelled at me and told me I'd be doing the all the housework until I found a job. At first I ignored her. When she got home I'd say I forgot. I knew she was serious when she put an ruffled apron on me and told me not to take it off until my housework was done. I found cleaning and cooking were enjoyable and gave me a sense of accomplishment. With just two of us cleaning didn't take long and cooking was a creative outlet. Answering the door in my apron was embarrassing, but no one said anything. Mother could see that I was less depressed and occasionally happy.

As summer ended, I was no closer to a job. One evening, mother was in a bad mood from a rough day. After dinner, I was told to get in the car. She drove to Walmart and stood over me as I filled out an application. A manager said there'd probably be an opening in a couple of weeks and I should expect a call. Neither of mom nor I were happy, but at least I'd have a job. As long as I did my housework, she didn't ride me, and a lovely dinner could put her in a good mood.

The following Sunday she read about a new distribution center . The wages were far better than Walmart and there were benefits. Interviews would be Monday at 8:00 AM. She'd take time off to drive me and to “help” me fill out the application.

Again, mom walked me in. It was like a cattle call with folks on folding chairs filling out applications. Mother looked over my shoulder as I filled out the form. Occasionally she'd correct my spelling or demand that I write a different answer – so I was constantly erasing and rewriting.

I was still erasing and correcting at 9:00 when a strawberry blond woman in a pants suit came out, looked us over and began collecting applications. She collected applications from brawny guys first, then from the better dressed women, and finally from the rest of us. When my application was collected last my mom gave me a sour look and said she'd pick me for lunch.

One by one people were called to be interviewed – more or less in the order the applications had been collected. Some left with large brown envelopes and smiles. Others left empty handed without smiles. As noon approached, I was the last one.

Finally, my name was called. Ms. Harper (her desk plate read “Patricia Harper”) was a younger and prettier version of Hillary Clinton with the same no-nonsense attitude.

“I see from your application that you have been unemployed since you left college. What have you been doing with yourself? Playing games, drinking beer and smoking pot?”

“No ma'am. I mean I like computer games, but I've been keeping house for my mother while I looked for a job.”

“So, you've been a homemaker,” she said, adding a note to my application.

I blushed, and was trying to think of a response when she pressed on.

“That's nothing to be ashamed of, a lot of the women I interviewed today are homemakers trying to enter the job market.

“So, was that your mother with you when I collected your application?”

“Yes, ma'am. She insisted that she come … I mean I didn't ask her or need her to, or anything,” I stammered. “I just needed a ride because I don't have a car,” I recovered.

“I see. So, why didn't she just drop you off?”

“Well, she thinks I need guidance at times,” I said honestly. I could tell there'd be no point in lying to Ms. Harper.

“And do you?”

“Maybe … I guess sometimes I do.”

“I appreciate your honesty. So, when someone who knows better thinks you need guidance, you accept it?”

I thought she might be talking about accepting supervision at work, so I said “Yes, I try to.”

“Do you think I know better than you?”

“Well, you're a manager here, so, I guess ...”

She looked at me with a raised eyebrow. “Only guess?”

“No, … I mean yes, I'm sure you know better than me.”

“So, when I point out that you are creating a poor impression by slouching as you are, would you sit up straight with your hands folded in your lap?”

I blushed again, but sat up and folded my hands. “Er … sorry.”

“Do you find it embarrassing to follow my guidance? I mean you're a big, strong man, and I'm only a ... woman?” She had walked around and sat on the edge of her desk looking down at me.

I felt very uncomfortable, being looked down at. Something else happened just then. I could smell her perfume. It smelled lovely and made it hard to think.

“Well?” she said.

“Well what?”

“Would you follow a woman's guidance? My guidance? Since I know better?”

I wasn't sure if we were talking about work or not. Her perfume confused me. “No, … I mean yes. I accept that you know better than me. I could follow your guidance.” At the same time I thought how my dad was always the one in charge. Men should be in charge. Maybe I could just act like I was accepting her guidance.

“Well, you seem very suitable for a position I have in mind – but not at the warehouse. You're simply unqualified for any job here. I've already offered them to more suitable candidates. Still, I'd like to take you to lunch to discuss another opportunity.”

“My mother's picking me up for lunch.”

“Perfect, she should hear what I have to say. Why don't you give her a call and invite her – my treat.”

I wanted to hint to mom to beg off, but Ms. Harper's look and extended hand made it clear that she wanted to talk to mother herself.

“Hello, Mrs. Robinson? Patricia Harper here, HR manager at Distroverse – where your son was seeking employment.”

…

“Nice to chat with you as well.”

…

“No, we didn't have a suitable position for a person of your son's … ah, gifts. I do have another opportunity for him I would like to discuss over lunch, if you'd care to join us?”

…

“OK. We'll meet at the main entrance.”

…

“Here, she wants to talk to you.”

When I got the phone back, mom told me she was intrigued that anyone was willing to discuss any possibility for me – so I'd better be enthusiastic. When I started to object, she made it clear that “we” would explore any and all possibilities for a future better than Walmart.

We had lunch at an upscale burger place. Ms. Harper ordered me a Boursin and mushroom burger that was the best I'd ever tasted. Once our orders were in, she got right to it.

“Mrs. Robinson, I'm being promoted to facility manager here, and have good prospects for advancement to upper management. As my biological clock is ticking, it's time for me to start a family, but it would would ruin my prospects to take a significant break from work. Still, I think children need a full-time, stay-at-home parent. I think Max could be that parent and would like to explore that possibility.”

I was miffed that Ms. Harper was talking to my mother and not me, and was about to say so when mom gave me a cold stare.

“When you say 'explore that possibility,' what do you mean?”

“I would like to date Max here, and see if he's the person I think. At the same time, Max could see how he likes being with me. So, I'm asking if I might court Max.”

“That might be just the thing for Max. I don't think he is cut out for the business world. He's more a stay-at-home boy.”

“Yes, he told me he is a homemaker – which is exactly what I'm looking for.”

“Hey! Don't I get a say?”

“Max, don't interrupt when I'm having a conversation. Besides, you should be thrilled that a woman is taking an interest in you. So far, your dating success has been less than stellar.

“Max will be happy to go out with you, Ms. Harper.”

“Please, call me Pat. How about dinner Wednesday evening? I could pick Max up at 6:30.”

“Thank you. You may call me Helen. I'll see that he's ready.”

“That would be lovely. See you then, Max.” She gave me a kiss on the cheek and left.

“Mother, how could you! It was almost like you two were settling on an arranged marriage!”

“Calm down Max, it is only a date. I thought you'd be thrilled. Here you are, 19, and the only sex you've ever had is with yourself. Now you'll have a chance to see if you like girls – or not.”

“I like girls.”

“Boys that like girls usually date them, dear.”

“Well, I never found one that liked me back.”

“Now you have. Do you think Ms. Harper, Pat, is pretty?”

“She's gorgeous, but she's a lot older than me.”

“Lots of people marry someone older.”

“Yeah, usually girls.”

“'The times, they are achangin'. Besides, you like homemaking. This could be just the thing for you, Max. I don't want any more argument until you've dated Ms. Harper a while and see how it goes. Do you understand?”

“Yes, mother.”

As she dropped me off at home, mother said she'd be late. When she got home, she'd bought some things for my date – a Burgundy satin shirt, matching tie, and three tank undershirts in red, purple and lavender. I told her I wasn't going to wear them, but she said it was important that I make a good impression and I most certainly would.

After dinner, we went shoe shopping at Payless. I sat patiently while mother looked for “something appropriate.” She came back with shiny black loafers, They looked OK, except the heels were about 1-1/2”. When I complained, she said I needed them because Ms. Harper was tall and would be even taller in heels. They took a bit of getting used to, but soon I did not notice the difference – except for feeling taller.

As our date approached, I kept thinking how about small I'd felt at the interview, and how mother and Ms. Harper had arranged things with no input from me. Maybe I should just refuse to date Ms. Harper. The memory of her perfume and the prospect of sex got my small head talking and I knew I'd go out with her. Still, I could be assertive as my father was. I started thinking of ways to show I was the man in the relationship: choosing the where and when of our dates, opening doors for her, helping with her chair, and so on. Imagining these things made me feel better. I could redeem my poor start.

On Wednesday, mother came home early to make sure I looked nice. I'd shampooed and conditioned my hair before she got home, but she brushed and sprayed it for me. She laid out my new red undershirt, saying nice underwear would make me feel confident. It was softer than any I'd worn before and felt nice. I never saw a man in a satin shirt, so I felt self conscious in mine. The buttons were difficult, so mother helped me with them. Then she took me to the mirror and said it was a good color for me. I had to agree.

She gave me a once over over and came back with tweezers to remove a few eyebrow hairs above the bridge of my nose. She also told me my nails needed work, but it was too late then. Still, I was not to cut them.

“Now, no sex on a first date. We don't want Ms. Harper thinking you're a slut. Still, better safe than sorry – I'm putting a condom in your wallet – just in case.”

“Mother! I couldn't be a slut anyway. I'm not a girl.” I stammered.

“Don't quibble over words. You know what I mean! Now, short of that, I want you to follow Ms. Harper's lead. This is a good opportunity for a boy like you, and I don't want to hear you've messed it up.”

“Yes, mother.”

At precisely 6:30 the doorbell rang . Ms. Harper handed me a bouquet of mixed flowers.

“I thought you might like these.”

I didn't know women gave guys flowers. It seemed strange, but mother gave me the eye. “Yes, they're beautiful, and they smell really nice. Thank you very much.”

“Why don't you put them in water, dear?” mother said.

As I walked to the kitchen to get a vase and water, Ms. Harper and mother chatted.

“He looks lovely, Helen. Did you buy him some new things for our date?”

“Yes. I thought you might appreciate me softening his rough edges.”

“Thank you. I think he looks perfect for a first date. I appreciate any help you may care to give …”

I returned with the flowers nicely arranged and put them on a side table.

“Well, Maxie – I may call you Maxie, mayn't I? You may call me Pat. As I was telling you mother, Maxie, you look perfect. I adore your outfit.”

I wasn't sure I wanted to be called Maxie, but mother told me not to mess things up. “Thank you, Ms. Har... Pat. Actually, my mother picked it out for me.”

“Well, you had the good sense to follow her lead. If you continue to do so, you'll be on the right track. … Shall we go?

“Helen, it was wonderful to see you again. I hope to see more of you in the future.”

When we got outside, Pat took my hand and led me to a red Beamer. She opened the door and helped me in, then handed me the buckle of the seatbelt. I was not familiar with it, so she helped me.

I haven't said how Pat was dressed. She wore soft, cream dress and bolero jacket. A plunging neckline accented her full breasts. The dress ended a few inches above her knees. Matching 3-1/2” heels showed off athletic, feminine legs. Even wearing my heeled loafers I had to look up to her. The combined effect, coupled with her perfume, put me off my assertive game plan.

As we drove, she explained she'd just joined the Downtown Women's Club. Modeled on the men's clubs in English movies, it was a place for professional women to make contacts, and invite friends and clients. While most of the club was members only, the dining room was open to guests.

When we arrived, I was still fumbling with my belt when she opened my door and unbuckled me. I felt like a child, but she said I'd soon learn to do it. She took my hand again and lead me to a porticoed entrance where she opened the door for me.

I was surprised to see that the wait staff was beefy guys in their twenties dressed in hot pants and short kimonos. Pat saw me starring.

“Aren't they delicious? We got the idea from Hooters. Turn about is fair play, don't you think?”

“Er … yes, I guess so.”

“Don't compare yourself to the eye candy. I'm here with you.” she said squeezing my hand reassuringly. The host greeted her by name and lead us to a table. He seated me while Pat took her own chair.

Soon Ronnie, a blond whose six-pack abs peaked through his loose kimono, came for our drink order.

“I'll have a Fiesta Margaretta and Maxie will have a Virgin Mary – he's underage. … Or would you rather have a Shirley Temple, Maxie?”

I didn't know either of them, but a Shirley Temple seemed wrong. “No, what you said is fine.”

Once Ronnie left, I said “I don't mean to complain, but shouldn't the host have helped you with your chair instead of me? And, while we're at it, shouldn't I be opening doors for you instead of vice versa? After all, I'm the guy.”

“Maxie, don't tell me you're sexist? Do you think that just because I'm a woman, I can't take care of myself?”

“No, I didn't mean that …”

“I should hope not. Let me explain it to you. First, I work out regularly and hike. Would I be wrong in saying that you're ah …, more sedentary?”

I blushed, but admitted I didn't exercise all that much. I didn't say so, but vacuuming the house was the most exercise I got all week.

“So, objectively, I should be helping you. Second, you're my guest. I'm to be hospitable, and it would be polite to accept any kindnesses offered you. Lastly, I'm not interested in dating a sexist. If you can't forget the stereotypes, tell me now, and I'll take you home with no hard feelings. Are you going to forget the sexual stereotypes, or shall we call an end to our evening?” All of this was said in all seriousness, but without a hint of anger.

“You're right. I didn't mean to be sexist. I'm sorry.”

“There's no need to be sorry as long as you avoid sexism in the future. Do you think you can do that?”

“Yes.”

Just then Ronnie brought our drinks. I discovered that a Virgin Mary was spiced-up tomato juice – which I'm not fond of. Maybe I should have tried a Shirley Temple. While he was there, Pat ordered herself a steak and me a petite chef salad. I got to choose the dressing.

All this made me uncomfortable, but I figured it was because I was sexist. Other than that, I enjoyed our dinner. The salad was wonderful, if a bit small. Our conversation was enjoyable. Pat brought out stories I'd almost forgotten and responded with genuine sympathy and laughter. I felt like an interesting person.

Her stories were fascinating and often very funny. They outlined a Horatio Alger tale of a woman making something of herself. She had the drive and perseverance I lacked. As she talked, I saw pain occasionally flicker in her expression, but nothing she said hinted at its source.

Eventually, she came to the point of our date. She wanted a family, and a man who was willing be a full time “housewife' and “mother” (her words). Of course, she didn't ask me to marry her, but made clear her hopes for our relationship. I responded that I hadn't thought about children yet, but agreed to think if I'd find such a life fulfilling.

Even though I'd heard Pat telling my mother almost the same thing Monday, I hadn't thought about it. I was too caught with having a date and, frankly, the prospect of sex. Now I thought it might be the same life I was already leading – with sex and cute kids as a bonus.

After dinner, Pat took my hand, led me to her car, opened the door and once more helped with my seat belt. Her perfume and the soft music she played as we drove made me as mellow as if I'd had wine with dinner. When she parked in front of my house, she leaned over and gave me a warm kiss.

“I watched you staring at my breasts all night, Maxie.”

I blushed and stammered incoherently.

“Its OK. After all, dating is sexual, dear. Would you like to touch them?”

I nodded silently.

She took my hand and looked at my rough nails. “I'm not going to let you touch my tender skin until those nails are smooth, but you've been all I could expect on a first data.” She took my hand and put it under her jacket. I felt her erect nipple through her dress. She started my hand in a circular motion which I continued as she leaned over and kissed me – this time with a bit of tongue. I'd never been kissed like that, but leaned back and accepted her invading tongue. The kiss didn't last long – which was a good thing or I would have had an embarrassment in my pants. After that, she walked me to my door, gave me romantic kiss, and waited until I went in.

My mother asked how my date went, and I told her it was nice without going into details.

That night I had confusing dreams. Sometimes I was a guy with a beautiful woman on my arm. Other times I was a housewife in my ruffled apron. When I looked down a cute toddler was holding my cream colored skirt looking back up at me. Finally, I was in bed having sex, but I couldn't tell if I was on the top or the bottom, the guy or the girl. I woke ejaculating – my first wet dream since I was 14. As I came down from my orgasm, I felt I'd betrayed my sex and shouldn't go out with Pat again. Still, I knew I would. I decided to ask mother how to care for my nails.

The next day I hoped for a text or call from Pat, but got none. Maybe she'd just been polite, and really didn't want me. As Friday progressed without a word, I began to panic. I couldn't stop thinking about her, but she seemed not to be thinking of me at all. I knew she wanted someone compliant. Maybe I was too sexist. Maybe my hands were too rough, even through the fabric of her dress. I longed to fondle her breasts, to be kissed again, but never would. It didn't help that mother asked at dinner Thursday, and again Friday, if I'd heard from Pat. She must expect that I would if I'd made a success of our date.

My panic was turning into despair when my cell rang about 9:30 Friday night. Pat said she'd had a busy week and wanted to know if I wanted to join her the next morning. It would not really be a date, just tagging along as she went through her Saturday routine. Of course, I jumped at the chance. She'd pick me up at 8:00 for breakfast.

Mother didn't pick out anything, so I wore a short sleeved dress shirt, black pants and my new loafers. Pat was in blue shorts, a powder blue polo shirt and coordinating athletic shoes. A ponytail dangled from the back of a Dodger's cap. Once again she opened the doors and helped me with little tasks.

We went to a coffee shop where the hostess knew her and sat us ahead of some others who were waiting. This time she asked what I'd like, and ordered for both of us. She chatted about a problem she'd resolved with the union, and asked me what I had done since our date. My only notable accomplishment had been making paella for Friday dinner. She treated it as an equal accomplishment and hoped I'd make it for her one evening. I knew it wasn't as important as union negotiations, but appreciated her making it seem so.

Pat said we had a 9:00 appointment at her nail salon. I was afraid that I'd leave with bright red nails, but I didn't. Instead Lin, the tech, simply scolded me before pushing my cuticles back and buffing my nails smooth. She ordered me not to mess with them, so they'd be longer next time. As we walked out, Pat and said now my hands wouldn't damage to her tender skin. My resulting erection gave my manicure a sexual edge.

Our next stop was Ross. Pat said she appreciated my patience and would reward me with a mountain picnic. There'd be a short walk to the spot. Since I wasn't dressed for a hike, she'd found me shorts, a polo shirt and shoes matching hers. I couldn't criticize them without criticizing her, so I accepted them.

It was easiest to change in the store. Once I did, I had nowhere to put my things because the shorts had no pockets. When she suggested a messenger bag, I drew the line.

“I'm not carrying a purse!”

“OK. What's your solution?”

I thought for a minute, but nothing came to mind. “I don't have one.”

“Then don't get all sexist and say you're not carrying a purse when it's the sensible solution.”

Here was the “sexist” card again. I didn't want to be sexist, so I wound up with a black shoulder bag. I paid for the clothes, but the bag was Pat's gift – so I wouldn't have to tell mother I'd bought myself a purse. I thanked her and told myself it wasn't really a purse, but a messenger bag. Still, it looked like a purse.

After a stop for Italian subs and bottled water, we arrived at the trail head. Pat put her sandwich and water in a day pack. Mine went in my purse, which I decided to call a “satchel.”

The walk was uphill, but not too strenuous. At the end was a picturesque little waterfall. A couple sat watching their children play in the pool at its base. They greeted us with “Good afternoon ladies.”

I didn't know what to say, but Pat stopped to chat before suggesting we climb to the top, where she knew a private spot.

When we were alone again, I said, “See, that's what comes of carrying a purse. They thought I was a woman!”

“Did it cause you any harm?”

“Well, no.”

“Then why do you care whether people think you're a guy or a gal? I think you're cute, and that's all that should matter when you're with me.”

I wanted to say something decisive, but nothing came to mind.

At last we reached a secluded meadow next to the stream. It was a gorgeous spot. Pat spread a blanket on the lush grass. The brook and birds played a symphony as we ate.

After lunch, Pat took off her shirt and suggested I do the same. She asked if I'd like her to put sun screen on me. Of course I did. She started with my face, ears and neck, then did my legs and stomach. When she got to my chest, she got behind me, reached around and rolled my nipples between her thumbs and fore fingers while cupping my flab with her hand. At first I was surprised, but the more she did it the sexier it felt.

When I leaned into her, she said “You like that Maxine, don't you?”

I wanted to tell her not to call me Maxine, but that is not what came out. “Yes, don't stop.”

Finally, she did stop. “Now it is my turn. Would you like to take off my bra?”

“May I?”

“Of course, or I wouldn't have asked.”

I hadn't seen a woman's breast since mother weaned me, so my heart raced as I tried to figure out the hooks. Once I had it off, I my eyes widened in amazed awe. I wanted to kiss her nipples, or perhaps a frustrated infantile instinct was urging me to nurse. Sill, I applied sunscreen to her in the order she'd followed. When her nipples hardened at my touch and she leaned into me, I lost control. My hands stopped moving and I involuntarily pinched her teats as I pulsed in my shorts.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry,” I said in a thick voice.

“Did Maxine have a little accident?” she said as she faced me.

I could only nod.

She pulled me against her breasts and said “Good girl!” Then she gave me a French kiss to die for.

“Do you want me to do anything for you?”

“Not this time, Maxine. Let's just relax and soak up some rays.”

I was soon asleep. When I woke, the stain on my shorts was drier and less noticeable. As we walked back, I realized that from now on I'd be her Maxine. What would Dad have thought?

When I got home mother noticed my stained shorts. “It looks like someone had a good time.”

I could only blush.

“And a new purse, too?”

“I's not a purse! It's a messenger bag. These shorts don't have pockets, so Pat got it for me to carry my things in.”

“That was very nice of her, don't you think, Max?”

I was half expecting her to call me “Maxine,” so it took me a second to respond. “Yes, I suppose it was.”

“But the main question is why you're not wearing the clothes you left in?”

Soon, my mother had the whole story out of me. I even admitted Pat called me “Maxine.”

“How do you feel about that?”

There was no point in lying. I'm horrid at it. “I thought I'd hate it, but it is kind of nice to have a pet name. I just hope she doesn't call me 'Maxine' in public.” For some reason I started crying. Maybe it was emotional exhaustion.

My mother held me. “It's OK, Maxine.”

Pat was busy during the week, but the following Saturday, we repeated our date. She insisted I carry my purse and wear my new shorts and top. (Yes, she called it a “purse.”) Lin shaped my now longer nails into neat ovals. We went to our private spot where I had another “accident.” Of course, it wasn't an accident, but something I'd looked forward to all week. This time mother insisted I wear a panty liner – so it wasn't as embarrassing.

The third Saturday, Pat told Lin, “I think Maxine's nails are long enough to need nail hardener.” Hardener turned out to be clear polish. I objected, but Lin knew who called the shots. Later, at our private spot, Pat whispered in my ear how pretty my hands looked as she massaged the front of my shorts.

I expected mother to object to my nail polish. At first, she said nothing, but later she complimented me on taking better care of my hands. Sunday, she bought lotion for me to use after washing dishes and before bed. I hadn't noticed before, but using it made me realize how irritating dish water can be. I knew Pat would appreciate softer hands, giving the lotion a sexual charge.

The next Wednesday, Pat took me to her club for dinner. She insisted I take my purse, even though my slacks had pockets. We had a lovely dinner, and Ronnie was a lot more attentive to me than he had been. Part of me found his attention creepy, but another part enjoyed it, as I was usually ignored.

This time Pat shared a bottle of wine with me. I know it's strange for a near twenty year old, but it made me feel very grown up – like I was almost her equal. As we shared a tiramisu, she got serious.

“Maxine, we've been going out for a while now, and I'd like to take our relationship to the next level. How do you feel about that?”

“I really enjoy being with you, especially our private time,” I blushed. “But sometimes it's a little embarrassing – carrying a purse and being called 'Maxine' in front of people.”

“Is being with me worth the embarrassment?”

I'd hoped that mentioning my embarrassment would make her back off. Instead, she asked if I was willing to accept it. I wanted to say no, but I'd accepted it so far, and the only two important people in my life – mother and Pat – were fine with me being … well, a sissy. I worried about where it might go. Still, I was a lot happier with Pat in my life. “It has been so far,” I answered.

“Good, then how would you like to be my steady girl?”

“You mean 'steady guy'?”

“No, I mean steady girl, just as I said. You know I treat you like a girl, and I think you love it. Don't you Maxine?”

I didn't want to admit it, but we both knew I did. “I guess I do,” I said quietly.

“Only guess, Maxine?”

“No, I really like being your girl, it's just hard to say.”

“I appreciate it, but it's for the best. So, do you want to be my steady girl or not?”

“Yes, I want to be your steady girl,” I whispered.

“Good!” She leaned over and kissed me.

“You deserved to be pinned. This is my sorority pin. I want you to wear it to remind you whose girl you are. OK, Maxine?”

“Yes, dear.” I felt like such a sissy. The sad thing was being pinned as Pat's “steady girl” made me as happy as I'd ever been.

When I got home, mother noticed the pin right off. She soon had the story out of me. I was so embarrassed, but mother was really happy for me.

“It's the best thing that could have happened for you. I'm so happy you're finding your niche in life!”

I wasn't sure about that, but was glad she wasn't making me feel more ashamed.

Nothing more was said until Friday evening, when mother gave me a box with a bow. It contained several sets of very feminine panties and camisoles.

“Now that you're Pat's steady girl, things may get more intimate, and it is important to have nice lingerie.”

“Mother!”

“Yes?”

“I don't need lingerie!”

“I think you do. Now go change and let me see how it fits.”

I went to my room, and tried on a pair of panties. They were lavender with a lace front panel and a bow at the waist. I should have hated them. Maybe my big head did, but my little head signaled instant approval. The matching camisole was cut for a girl with a small top. It fit all too well – making my flabby mounds embarrassingly prominent. Reflexively, I ran my hands over them. As I did so I imagined Pat fondling my breasts as she called me “Maxine” and “my pretty girl.” My nipples were soon as erect as the rest of me.

“Max are you coming out?”

My mirror showed a flush face with bedroom eyes. God! I couldn't model my lingerie for mother like this. “I er .. have to adjust things a bit first.”

“Well, take your time. I knew you'd love them. When your done 'adjusting,' put on a fresh set and let me see the fit. .. and don't forget to rinse your panties in cold water.”

Arousal, embarrassment and guilt bombarded me. My relief came without conscious assistance – and with it came a glimmer of contentment.

I woke Saturday morning in a pink panty and cami set. I felt like a complete sissy. I resolved then and there to take charge of my life and be a man! I began by throwing all my lingerie in the wastebasket followed by my purse. After I showered, I decided not to shave my mustache – nothing shows manliness like facial hair. As I stepped into my jockeys and pulled a sweat stained tee over my head, I thought, “Today I'll make dad proud!”

Sipping my morning coffee I imagined my new, manly self on my date with Pat. Breakfast was fine, but when I imaged Pat and me at the nail salon, the mental discord began. How could I be a manly man with Lin putting a new coat of polish on my nails? I'd just skip my manicure and hang out at the hardware store while Pat got hers. I'd inspect left-handed what-cha-ma-call-its and discuss a plumbing problem with the clerk. No sissy would do that.

Then the imaginary clerk saw my rounded, shiny nails and snickered as he suggested a pair of lady's work gloves. Worse was Pat recoiling when my rough hands and broken nails scratched her bare breasts. Soon, I was hyperventilating. Worse, it was 7:55 and Pat would soon be here. She wouldn't like her steady girl wearing a ratty tee and sporting a nascent mustache.

I ran to the bathroom, but mother was in it. Panicking, I hurried to my room to pull my purse and lingerie out of the trash. A cream cami and pantie set were on top, so I put them on. Before I could put my shorts and top back on, mother finished in the bathroom, and I ran to shave my mustache.

“I see I got the right sizes for you, dear, but your body hair detracts from the image.”

“I don't have time to do anything about it now. Pat's almost here and we have to finish breakfast in time for our nail appointment.”

“I want you looking your best, so I'll talk to Pat and make breakfast to save you time. I want to see a clean chest and underarms, and smooth legs when you come out.”

As soon as I closed the door, I heard mother greet Pat. I could hear them talking, but not what they were saying. Meanwhile, I shaved my upper lip and began on my under arms. I was almost finished when mom came to the door to tell me to use my lotion when I was done.

In my rush, I'd forgotten my shorts and top. So I had no choice but to walk into the hall in my lingerie. Our living room sofa faces straight down the hall. Of course Pat saw me. I tried to make it to my room, but she called to let her see me.

“You look so pretty Maxine!” she said pulling me onto her lap and pressing the tip of her tongue between my lips. Her right hand ran over the curve of my breast, making my nipple stand to attention. “And you fill the cups beautifully. I could just eat you up.” Her left hand glided down my satin camisole and over my pantied bum. She glanced at my smooth legs. Soon her fingertips were running over them.

I wanted to be embarrassed, but I couldn't. I was her steady girl, and I'd obviously stirred her passions. I melted into her arms, ready to be taken there on mother's sofa.

“We'd better stop before your mother wants to arrange a shotgun wedding. Put your clothes on Maxine, and we'll continue later.”

I suddenly realized that dressed in my lingerie, I turned Pat on even more then she turned me on. Until then, Pat held all the cards. Now I realized that the prettier I was the more of a tease I could be. It was an astounding discovery. Before then I'd always thought only he-men could turn women on. Now I realized a pretty sissy could too – at least with Pat.

Mother made us a lovely breakfast of bacon and eggs. When Pat went to the restroom, she told me that I was following the right course and looked much happier than when I was trying to be macho and failing. “Are you happy dear?”

“Yes, very, mother.”

“Good, I love you, and want you to enjoy your new self.”

…

As Pat and I were walking to the salon, a mother came out holding the hand of a curly-haired blond boy, red-faced with embarrassment. He looked 13 or 14. As we got closer, red toenails drew my attention to his feminine sandals. Matching nails glistened on his fingers. He was looking down and didn't see us.

“We both know you love dressing up and wearing nail polish, so stop being embarrassed, and be proud of who you are, Dorothy.”

“Yes, but everyone will laugh at me.”

I knew exactly how he felt, and my heart went out to him.

“Excuse me, but I am going in to have my nails done. I wonder if I may have a word with Dorothy?”

His mother glanced back and forth between us, finally deciding I looked harmless enough.

“Yes, if you think you can help.”

“Dorothy, I want to say how pretty you are. I'm like you. I like dressing up,” I pulled my collar aside to reveal the lace of my cami, “and I have my nails done every week. This week, I am going to get the same color as you, since it's so beautiful. What color is it?”

“Passion fruit,” he said in a quiet voice.

“Well it's gorgeous! Do you like it?”

“Yes, but boys aren't supposed to like being pretty.”

“That's nonsense – and sexist too! We can be as beautiful as we want – can't we Pat?”

“Yes, Maxine – and I am so glad you're pretty for me, dear.”

Dorothy stopped blushing and seemed to relax. “Really?”

“Yes, really!” Pat and I said together.

“So, just be happy your mother is helping you, just as my mother is helping me.” I was about to go in when Dorothy's mother asked if we could exchange numbers. We did.

When Lin picked up the clear polish, I asked if I could have Passion Fruit instead. She was surprised, but smiled broadly. “I saw you talk to Dorothy. You like her color?”

“Yes, but mostly I promised him I'd wear it to make him feel better.”

“You nice man. Free today.”

I gave her a very generous tip.

Pat was very pleased as well. When we got back in her car she said, “Instead of our usual today, what if I take you to Merle Norman to get make up? I think you'd look even lovelier if you wore just a bit.”

I didn't know if I was ready for make up, but at least a specialty shop would be more private than the cosmetics counter at a department store. “Do you really think I'd look prettier?”

“I think so, but we'd need to experiment a bit to find the best look for you. So, are you willing to try?”

“Would it please you?”

“I think it would, but mostly, it would help you accept your feminine self.”

“You mean being a sissy?”

“Well, 'sissy' has connotations that don't apply to you, but yes, you're a very loved sissy.”

I should have thought about being a sissy, but what struck me was 'very loved.' Pat had never said she loved me before. “You mean you love me?”

“Of course, Maxine, I wouldn't have asked you to be my steady girl otherwise.”

“Well, a girl likes to hear it, Pat.”

“I love you, Maxine, with all my heart.”

“I love you too, Pat. I want to be everything you want in a girl.”

“Then you're ready to try a little make up?”

“I already have Passion Fruit nails, so why not?”

The consultant at Merle Norman was busy with another customer, and suggested we come back in 15 minutes. Pat took me to a jewelry store. She wanted me to have birthstone earrings for being “so wonderful.” My birthday is in June, so I left with pink pearl studs in newly pierced ears. No one could think they were masculine, but I remembered what I told Dorothy and loved them anyway.

I sat at the Merle Norman's counter with my Passion Fruit nails and pink pearl earrings, and put my purse on it. Anyone looking knew I was a sissy, but I wasn't embarrassed. I was just the way I need to be to be a happy, sexy tease for Pat.

“How may I help you dear?”

Pat was about to answer for me, but I touched her leg to stop her and spoke for myself. “I'm hoping you'll teach me some tasteful make up techniques to improve my appearance, so I can get this lady to make an honest man of me.”

Glancing at Pat, I could see that she was surprised and taken aback. I might not be manly, but at least I'd taken charge of my life.