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Chapter 8 - Confusion

Confusion. A fine old word, comes from the Latin confundere, meaning mingle together. Now there's a concept that describes a young crossdresser - or maybe trans-something - if there ever was one.

After the exhilarating emotional roller coaster of a date with Sheila, the word bi-polar was much in his mind. One minute high with enthusiasm for wearing his (her?) new dress with his (her?) cousin, the next down in the lower recesses of despair for being a freak. Keep Portland Weird joined bi-polar running around Pete's befuddled brain.

Pete didn't really mind being a boy all that much. The typical boy things like sports and dirt bikes and catching snakes were OK, but that was about it - OK. They were just about as much fun as cooking or sewing or just talking to friends without having to invent exploits to impress the guys who were being just as inventive. As far as he could tell, the balance shifted to the girl side because they had nicer bodies.

So yeah, maybe he was prejudiced by the testosterone in his body.

How many years had he daydreamed about being a girl? And how many years had he not done a damned thing about it? Reading stuff online was about all. A few scrounged pieces of clothing, taken out rarely when he was alone and worn in his bedroom, all the while listening feverishly to be sure nobody had come home to catch him wearing them. Those nebulous visions of walking in a flowing skirt, feeling his very own breasts bouncing in a bra were cherished fantasies.

Then along comes Sheila kissing him and suddenly Pete was thinking of things about as far from being a girl as could be imagined. Not macho, that wasn't anything in his makeup, but horny male images of putting his hands inside her bra. While she was wearing it. Maybe taking her bra off her and not because he wanted to put it on his body.

Then she goes and invites him to dress up like the girl he thought he wanted to be and spend the day all alone with her.

Could Portland get any weirder than that? It was like trying to find his way out of a maze.

The clothes had fascinated him since his sister got her first training bra. He must have been, what? Eleven? Vicky started showing breasts when she was only ten. Overhearing his parents talking about what to do because she was developing so early had made him jealous. Why couldn't he develop, too? The answer came only a few days later when Dad took him aside and explained what was happening to Vicky and what would happen to him.

After that talk about the birds and the bees he sort of got the idea; at least he knew he was never going to have his parents buy him a training bra. That seemed awfully unfair, but it was pretty clear it wasn't something he was supposed to complain about to his parents. The message that boys and girls are different did come through clearly.

It still wasn't fair, though.

Then he noticed one of his mother's bras in the laundry and it did fit. Well it flopped around a bit but it was close. He even wore it overnight a few times after he had been tucked into bed. He still remembered the one night when he had a nightmare and Mom came in to comfort him. He was scared silly she would hug him and find the bra. He managed to get the idea across he was too big for hugs and he wanted to go back to sleep. He took it off the second she left the room and hid it until he could toss it down the laundry chute the next morning.

Sadly, he grew fast enough his mother's clothes wouldn't fit by the time he was maybe thirteen. No more secret overnight sessions with her bra. That lasted until a few years ago when he found a couple of dusty boxes in the attic that contained his grandmother's old clothes. That was his Dad's mom, not Mom's mom - the one who complained about his long hair. Pete could barely remember her living with them when he was a little kid. She must have died when he was six or so and those boxes got shifted upstairs instead of going to the Goodwill. Who knew why, but there they were, waiting for him.

Maybe it was age that made the elastic so limp, maybe it was that Grandma didn't care if her bra let her tits flop. He certainly remembered being buried in them when he sat on her lap. Most of the nicer stuff was too small, she lost a lot of weight as old age and cancer slowly killed her, but some of the older stuff was near enough his size for him to wear. At first he felt like a grave robber wearing her things, but after a while they just became his precious clothes whenever he could put them on.

Now he had underwear and two Girl Scout uniforms that fit properly, not to mention that blue dress bought especially for him and no one else. Clothes he could wear all day long if he could handle his cousin being there watching him.

It was a good thing that Pete was known as a boy to all and sundry, because if he had been a girl everyone would have thought he (she?) was an air-headed bimbo that week in school. His mind was a thousand miles away. Or rather about twenty five miles away at a cabin in the woods.