Copyright © Tracy Lane, 2013/2021.

Royal Flash

Snapshots from the childhood we should have had :)

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Note: this story is set in the Tranzie Universe; the protagonist is biologically male but looks anatomically female.

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You know, I remember when the cancan was considered very sexy. Petticoats were just going out of fashion when I was growing up, and practically every girl I knew wore fluffy little petti-sets back in those days. Needless to say, we all loved revealing our petticoats on the flimsiest pretexts - mainly because we knew how cute we looked. Fortunately, the opportunities came thick and fast in our part of the empire: my folks were "Lindy" fanatics from way back, and encouraged me to join in the festivities. As a matter of fact, I became the star attraction.

It was the practically the same thing every night - come 6.30 pm, they'd put Benny Goodman on the record player and I'd twirl around the living room with my skirts flying almost straight out from my waist. Mom and Dad always praised my antics, apparently it reminded them of when they were courting during the war. Given the circumstances, my eventual segue into the cancan was inevitable.

Here's how it happened:

One day, I was turning cartwheels in the backyard for my friends, raising a storm of catcalls every time my skirt flipped upside-down. Mom came to the back door to see what the racket was, and laughed out loud as she saw me wheeling across the lawn. Contrary to popular belief, this was normal behavior for girls back then, and Mom jokingly asked if we were practicing the cancan. I relied with an indignant "No!" but of course everyone was giggling at sight of my white cotton knickers.

I think I was about seven or eight at that time. I knew what the cancan was from movies and TV; like most girls my age, I thought it was the cheekiest dance imaginable, because it involved showing off your undies in public. Mom's teasing comment set some wheels turning in my mind, and a few days later I asked her if I could lean how to dance the cancan.

Mom wasn't really an expert, but she had a good idea of the basic steps and gave me some mock lessons in the living room. It wasn't much different from what we did in gym class at school (cartwheels, handstands etc), I just needed to throw in a few high kicks here and there. Mom even put the "Cancan Polka" song on the radiogram so I could sing along while I practiced.

Mom mentioned it to my Dad a few nights later, and naturally, they both agreed it was time for a Command Performance. At first I played coy, but after a little coaxing, I let Mom take me upstairs to change into my Official Costume (which consisted of an ordinary red sundress, a three-tiered petticoat, and a pair of black mary-janes). Once I was ready, we went back to the living room, where Mom put Offenbach on the player (the "real" cancan from Orpheus in the Underworld this time). I was already grinnign with anticipation - I'd known this moment would be inevitable, and had been looking forward to it all day long.

Anyway, as soon as the music started, I launched into my routine, dazzling my parents with lots of panty-flashing kicks, spins and handstands. The best part was at the end, where I bent over and flipped my petticoats up at the back, shaking my bottom from side to side. Mom and Dad both applauded this "Royal Flash," demanding an encore on the spot (which I graciously obliged, following a full minute of bald-faced ego stroking).

It was the first of many such spectacles: sometimes at Christmas, I was called upon to entertain friends and relatives with my scandalous routine, sometimes winning a standing ovation for my efforts. On one occasion, I even talked my girlie cousins into joining in - but as I often say - that's a tale for another day.

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