By Kim Johns
I almost fell over on the landing in my mad rush to get to the bathroom, yelling down the stairs that I was on my way. Janey said something that I didn’t hear. I don’t think it was complimentary.
As I soaped myself under the shower I mentally bemoaned the fact that mum had gone away for the week. She’d left on Saturday morning, and it was only Monday now! While Janey, who at fifteen was a year older than me, was pretty good at looking after my welfare, she felt she had rather more important things to do most of the time than be my slave! She cooked a mean breakfast, though, and I didn’t want to miss it!
Dashing back into my bedroom still dripping I scrabbled through the drawers for clean underwear. Shit! No underpants. Now what was I going to do?
“Breakfast getting cold!” droned Janey from the kitchen.
Grabbing my dressing gown I fell down the stairs. Not literally.
Scooping bacon and egg into my mouth, I looked across the table. Janey seemed OK this morning as she buttered her toast, no hang-ups or anything.
“Sis?” I said tentatively.
Her eyes peered at me from beneath her fringe, her response requiring no verbalising.
“Er…I’ve got no underwear…”
Her mouth dropped. “Bugger. I meant to do a wash yesterday, but Ben asked me out…”
Ben was her boy-friend. She had left me on my own last night to go out on a snogathon or whatever. Great. I liked my time on my own.
I grabbed my mug of tea and took a huge swallow. “Can I borrow a pair of your pants, Janey?”
“What?” Her eyes saucered as she looked at me in astonishment.
“Well,” I said defensively, “I don’t know what else to do. What about it?”
She laughed, and I didn’t care for the way it sounded. “Yeah, OK, I guess,” she said.
“Great!” I leapt to my feet and made for the door.
“Mike!”
I halted and looked at her as she came round the table.
“What?”
“I’ll get them,” she said. “I don’t want you grubbing through my knicker drawer.”
I flushed and fidgeted. “OK, but can you make it quick? If I don’t hurry up and get dressed I’m gonna be late!”
I followed her upstairs, averting my eyes as I did so. Janey wears incredibly short skirts to school, and while I’ve no great objection to the odd glimpse of a girl’s panties, it’s a bit different when it’s your own flesh and blood doing the flashing.
I hopped about outside her room while she rummaged about in the pine chest of drawers under her window.
“Mikey?”
I jumped. She was standing behind me.
“Jesus!”
“Mike, you’re not going to be happy. These are all I’ve got unless you want some pink satin or ones covered in flowery patterns.”
The panties she handed me at least had the saving grace of being plain white. Apart from that they were edged around the waist and legs with fancy lace trimming.
“Oh, come on Janey, I thought you had some plain stuff.”
“How do you know that? Mike, you don’t go looking through my drawers when I’m out, do you?”
I flushed. The thought had crossed my mind several times in the past, but she was my skin and blister for goodness’ sake!
“Of course not, but I’m not blind. There’s a washing line in the garden, girl!”
She looked sympathetic. “Mike, I’m sorry, these are the least girly ones I’ve got clean. All my others are in the wash and I meant…”
“To do it last night,” I finished for her. “Except Ben’s tongue got stuck down my throat!”
She blushed, and my mental finger wrote a huge “1” in the air. I didn’t score off Janey much, but when I did it was an event to be remembered.
The next thing, of course, was that her thumb and forefinger had my nose in a Vulcan death grip. “It’s either these or you go commando,” she snarled at me. Not a pretty sight. If only Ben knew. Perhaps he did.
I grabbed the panties from her and rescued my nose. “Thanks, sis,” I said gratefully, and meant it. We have our moments, but Janey is a babe most of the time.
As I barged the door of my room she called after me.
“What?”
“You haven’t got any sports lessons today, have you?”
I considered. “No, why?”
“Oh, nothing. I was just picturing you getting changed and all the guys admiring your panties, that’s all!”
My turn to go red. “No, right, thanks Janey.”
I struggled into her underwear. It was like putting on a second skin that was just a bit too small for you. The soft but strong fabric gripped my boy bits firmly, and in fact once they were on they felt pretty good. I pulled on the rest of my clothes, grabbed my school bag and met Janey at the front door.
“All right?” she said pointedly, nodding at my nether regions.
“Yeah, thanks again, Janey.” A thought struck me. “Hey, you won’t tell any of your mates about this, will you?”
An angelic smile crossed her face. “No, but I did think of e_mailing everyone on the school computer system.”
“Janey, you wouldn’t…” I could see her mental scoreboard. One all!
On the way to school we met up, as usual, with Jane’s and my friends. I say as usual, what I really mean is when I’m not running late.
Pete and Arthur are my closest compadres, as Ally and Becky are Jane’s. Of course, the girls are all a year older than us (that’s about three years in female time!), so they look down on us a bit, but because they know each other through Jane and me, my mates and Jane’s actually get on quite well. We often go to the pictures together, that sort of thing.
We parted at the school gates, the girls moving towards their year’s entrance which is separate to ours.
“Mike,” Jane called out as they reached the large wooden doors.
I looked up. “Yo!”
My beloved sister grinned. “Don’t get caught with your trousers down!” She waved and disappeared.
“What was that all about?” asked Pete as I felt my neck getting red.
“Er…I dunno…she’s been a bit funny this morning. You know what girls are like.”
Pete did. He also had a sister. Arthur didn’t. He was an only child.
The day passed well, especially at lunch break when Susie Parker smiled at me. She was Ally’s sister, but in our year, and I have to admit I have the hots for her. School uniform doesn’t do much for anyone, but Sue wore it to perfection. Her short grey pleated skirt showed off her long, black-stockinged legs to great effect, and I’m sure I wasn’t the only guy with his tongue sweeping the school playground that day. I felt a little twitch between my legs as I caught a quick glimpse of white bra straps under Susie’s white school blouse. Could have been embarrassing. Lucky I was wearing Janey’s tight panties to keep me cool. Shit! I’d almost forgotten I was wearing them!
“What’s the matter with you?” asked Arthur, “You look as if you’ve eaten a turd. I thought you fancied her!”
I adjusted my face. It could be read too easily. It could also be red too easily, as it was now. “Nothing,” I said hastily. “And I do. Fancy her, I mean. I have done for ages.”
“Why don’t you ask her out then?” Pete was ever practical, forgetting that his Irish ancestry gave him a natural charm that had all the girls swooning over him. Me, I had to work hard for them to even spit on me. Except that Susie Parker seemed to like me. Pity me, probably.
Things got better after school. When we all met up to walk home, Susie was with her sister. She fell in beside me, brushing her long blonde hair behind her head.
“Hi, Mike.”
“Hi again. I saw you in school, remember?”
She laughed. “I know. I was just trying to get a conversation going.”
Shit shit shit. Apart from with my sister and mother, I had an inherent inability to talk rationally to women.
“Right. How was your day?”
“Mike, we go to the same lessons.”
“Er…yeah, but how were they for you?”
She elbowed me in the ribs. “You really are shy, aren’t you?”
“Who’s been talking?”
She changed tack. “When’s your mum getting back?”
“End of the week.”
“What, Friday night or Saturday?”
“Saturday.”
“I was wondering…” she was looking at me from the corner of her eye.
“Wondering?”
“English homework.”
“What about it?”
“I’m not very good at English.”
“I can understand you.”
Ouch! My ribs.
“Grammar, you goof!”
“Oh.”
A silence. The chattering of Janey and her friends surrounded us.
“Mike, you’re top in English.”
I knew that. “I know that,” I said. Noel Coward, eat your heart out.
“Mike Nolan, are you going to help me with my English homework or not!”
She had stopped suddenly and raised her voice. Pete and Arthur collided with Jane, and Ally and Becky nearly fell off the kerb.
Susie was flushing, and I was blushing.
“Mike, don’t be rotten, help Susie with her homework,” said Janey.
“Yeah, you rotter.” Ally and Becky poked me. Pete and Arthur sniggered.
I raised my hands in surrender. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t,” I tried to explain. “I don’t mind.”
We all carried on walking.
“Well, it’s nice you don’t mind,” Susie told me coldly.
“What?”
“I wouldn’t want to put you out.”
“Susie!” This time I stopped. The others, obviously ready for me, walked around me. I grabbed the girl’s arm.
“I’d love to help you,” I babbled.
“Didn’t sound like it…”
“I couldn’t believe you asked me. Here I’ve been trying to get up the courage…” my voice trailed off into silence as I realised Sue and I were in the centre of a circle formed by our mutual friends and family.
“Courage to what?”
“Oh for crying out loud!” One of my sister’s favourite expressions. “Mike, do her homework for her, or give her a kiss, but DO something!”
The rest of them cheered and again walked on, leaving me facing her in the middle of the pavement.
I gulped. “Susie Parker, I fancy you something rotten,” I gulped, feeling old beetroot head arriving.
She smiled, a satisfied, smug sort of smile, like the cat that’s just got the cream. “Well, at last. It’s about time, Mikey Nolan. A girl can’t wait forever, you know.”
“What? You mean you like me?”
She raised herself on tiptoe and kissed me. On the lips. From a distance all our pals yelled and applauded. I kissed her back. Her lips were soft and warm.
“Is this real?” I asked.
She took my hand. “Tell me all about finite verbs,” she whispered in a low, sexy voice.
“So it’s not my body you’re after then? It’s an A grade.”
She squeezed my hand. “Nobody’s pluperfect.”
So that was great, and we arranged to meet at hers after school the next day to go through the homework.
That night mum phoned during the evening to see how we were getting on. I had to field the call because Ben had popped round to see Janey and they were up in her bedroom, doing their homework, I guess. Must have been sports homework, as she looked a bit hot and dishevelled when I yelled to her to come down and speak.
Mum was on a business trip up North. She hadn’t wanted to go, but when you’re a bit successful in your chosen line of work I guess the bosses force that sort of thing on you. Anyway, it was going well, and we assured her there were no problems our end. She hung up feeling as good as we could convince her to feel.
Tuesday
The next morning was a bit like dejas vu — due to Ben’s appearance yesterday Janey still hadn’t done any washing, and once again I was underwear-less.
“Not only that,” I whined, “I’ve got no clean socks, either!”
“Oh for goodness’ sake,” said Jane, sounding just like mum, “Am I the only person in this place who knows how to work the washing machine?”
“Err…actually, yes,” I admitted.
“Well, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. I suppose you want another pair of my panties?”
“I’m sorry, Janey,” I told her, “But I’ve got absolutely nothing in my drawers!”
“Well, as I told you yesterday, all I’ve got left now are patterned ones.” She was rifling through the chest again.
“Nothing plain at all hidden away anywhere?”
A secret smile crossed her face, and she opened a small cardboard box hidden in the corner of one of the drawers. “There’s always these.”
‘These’ turned out to be a flimsy pair of white lacy see-through panties that left very little to the imagination.
“No way!” I told her.
“In that case it’s the cotton panties with the flowers or whatever!”
“OK, OK,” I held my hand out. “Any port in a storm. Got any black socks?”
“Nope! White or coloured.”
“Oh God!” Simms, our head teacher, was a stickler for the school uniform. It had to be black socks.
“Janey, please! Help me!”
“Well…” my sister looked down at her own legs, clad in regulation black tights. “I can lend you a pair of these.”
“Tights? You’ve got to be kidding!”
She laid a hand on my arm. “Sorry. It’s all I’ve got, kiddo.”
Oh no! It looked as if I’d be attending school wearing most of my sister’s clothes!
“All right,” I surrendered, “But Janey, pretty please, not a word to anybody!”
In my own room I found the panties were as comfortable as yesterday’s pair, and once the tights were on and under my trousers you couldn’t tell the difference between them and my usual socks. It felt a bit strange, though, but after a bit I forgot I was wearing them.
We met the gang as usual, with the addition of Susie who normally went a different route with some of her other friends. Wonder why she teamed up with us this morning?
She barged me with her body. “Are you going to carry my books, or what?”
“Or what,” I told her.
“Wrong answer,” she said grimly, thrusting her school bag into my arms. I took it with good grace and as a reward she held onto my arm.
“Whoo! Lovebirds!” said Pete, and Arthur and the girls laughed.
“That’s my sister you’re playing around with,” warned Ally.
“Err…I think she’s playing around with me,” I ventured.
“That’s what we’re allowed to do,” Sue told me, batting her eyelashes at me.
“Just wait until I start on your homework tonight,” I cautioned her.
Another demure smile as she squeezed my arm. “Can’t wait,” she murmured.
The day dragged, mainly because I was excited about getting Susie on my own, but finally the bell sounded and the holocaust hit the streets.
Ally was going to our place with Jane, so that was all right, although I knew Susie’s mum would be at home. Still, I liked her. A nice lady.
As we reached the parting of the ways, Jane dragged me to one side.
“Keep your trousers on,” she whispered.
“Janey!” I was offended. Did she think I was a sex maniac or something?
“No, keep your trousers on,” she whispered again with extra emphasis.
Shit! I’d forgotten. I’d been wandering around all day wearing her panties and tights!
“Ah,” I said sagely, and nodded to show the penny had dropped. Still, I considered, the chances of my removing my trousers under any circumstances in the company of sexy Susie seemed a bit remote. Happy thought, though. Behave yourself, Nolan!
“Hi, darling! Hello Mike,” said Susie’s mother, giving us a warm smile as we entered her kitchen.
“Mrs Parker,” I said.
Susie pulled me through the kitchen towards the stairs. “Mike’s helping me with my English,” she said.
“Do either of you want a drink?”
“Oh, yeah!” The girl went over to the tall refrigerator and got out a couple of diet Cokes. “This do, Mike?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
I’ll draw a veil over the homework session. Susie was in fact almost as good as I was at the subject, so very little tuition was required. I think we both learnt a lot, though!
When I got in Ally had gone, and Jane was busy in the kitchen.
“Good, you’re back. Get your clothes off!”
“What?”
“Come on, Mike, you’ve been moaning that you’ve got nothing to wear for the last two days! It’s all in the machine; I just want those tights and panties!”
She followed me upstairs, and as I slipped my trousers off in my room she whistled.
I nearly had a heart attack, I hadn’t realised she was there.
“Nice legs,” she commented. “It’s amazing what a pair of tights can do for you! I know a lot of girls who’d die for legs like yours!”
I turned my back on her and pulled off the tights. “Give it a rest, Janey!”
I pulled on my track bottoms and threw her the panties and tights.
“So that’s all the thanks I get…” she began.
I put a finger on her lips. “Hey, Janey, I really am grateful, but I really don’t want to discuss the fact I’ve been prancing around for the last two days in your undies!”
“OK, OK,” she put her two hands up in surrender. “But I bet you were comfy, weren’t you?” My sister has a wicked smile. I chose to ignore it.
“Actually,” I admitted, “They weren’t bad at all. But please can we close the subject?”
She smiled and walked downstairs without answering. I groaned. Now she had something she could really use against me if the going got tough!
Wednesday
On the Wednesday morning I came down to breakfast in freshly laundered clothes to find Janey making breakfast in her school dress, a dark blue affair that, while it fitted her perfectly, she professed to hate. She was always more comfortable with skirts and tops for some reason.
“Why the gymslip?” I quipped.
I turned into a stone statue at the look she gave me. “Not funny, Mike. I put my skirts in the wash last night and they’re not ready. This is all I’ve got!”
“Want to borrow a pair of my trousers?”
“Still not funny. My black trousers were in the machine as well. I look dreadful.”
“Actually, Janey, I think you look great in that. Perhaps it’s the St. Trinian’s thing.”
“Mike, quit while you’re ahead,” she advised me. I concentrated on breakfast.
Susie wasn’t with the gang this morning worse luck, but we exchanged smiles during the day which was good enough for me. And the day passed fairly quickly, which was even better.
After school I met up with Pete and Arthur. Strangely, there was no sign of Jane, so I told the guys to go on without me while I tracked her down.
Trotting round to her year’s entrance I notice a small group standing by the path that leads to the sports field. As I approached, I saw Janey was in the middle of the crowd with another girl. Raised voices were sounding.
“You stay away from Ben Davies,” I heard a banshee shriek.
Jane’s voice came clearly to me. “Just because he doesn’t want to go out with you doesn’t mean he can’t have a life!”
I drew closer. Jane’s aggressor was in the top form at school, and a renowned bully. She pushed her face close to my sister’s.
“Don’t talk to me like that, you slut! If it wasn’t for you he’d be my boy-friend!”
Janey stood her ground. “I wonder,” she said defiantly. “Perhaps he prefers quality to quantity.”
The big-bosomed girl glared at her. “Right, you bitch!” With one hand she grabbed Jane’s hair and with the other pushed her so that she fell to the grass. Then she jumped on top of her and started hitting her.
I pushed through the crowd and grabbed the girl’s arm, pulling her away. She turned on me furiously, slapping my face.
“So little Janey-Waney needs her ickle brother to protect her, does she?” she jeered.
My sister was on her feet, tears on her cheeks but anger in her eyes. Shit! Janey was mad. Watch out! She made a bee-line for her adversary, fists clenched.
Suddenly a figure intervened, gently turning my sister away as he faced his admirer. Ben to the rescue!
“Go away,” he told the angry girl. “If I’d wanted to go out with you, I’d have asked you. I make my own decisions. Leave Jane alone.”
“But Ben,” wailed the girl.
“Go away,” he repeated firmly. She glowered at him, then turned and walked away with her friends.
Ben turned to Jane. “You OK?”
She wiped her damp cheeks with the back of her hand and nodded. “Yeah, thanks Ben,” she said.
“Want me to see you home?”
She shook her head. “Thanks, but Mikey’s here. I’m OK.”
“If you’re sure?”
A wan smile. “I’m sure.”
“I’ll call you.” He walked away.
Jane and I walked home silently. I felt sorry for my sister, although I knew that, if she had been angry enough, she would have knocked the other girl into the middle of next week.
When we got home I made her a cup of tea, and we sat quietly in the kitchen sipping slowly.
We went upstairs to get changed.
“Mikey?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t tell mum when she rings, will you?”
“’Course not.”
“Thanks.”
I changed and did my homework before coming back downstairs to find my sister sitting in the lounge with her school dress over her knees and a needle and thread in one hand.
“What’s up, doc?”
“That tart has ripped the hem of my dress,” she told me. “I’ve got to fix it, my other bits aren’t ready yet so I need it for tomorrow, but it’s a pain in the bum to do!”
“Can I help?”
She raised the needle and thread in my direction and I backed away. “OK, OK, point taken.”
I went into the kitchen to sort food out. Janey does most of the cooking when mum can’t, but I do my bit now and again.
I’d sorted out the veg and popped meat in the oven when Janey called me. I slouched into the lounge.
“Did you mean it when you asked if you could help?” I saw frustration in her eyes as she raised the dress.
I nodded. “Sure, if I can.”
She shook her head. “No. It’s all right. You wouldn’t want to, anyway.”
Women! “Try me.”
“Well, the best way to fix a hem like this is if the dress is hanging down straight.”
“OK, I’ll hold it while you sew.”
“No, straight, as if it’s being worn.”
“I’ll stand on a chair and hold it.”
She shook her head. “That won’t do it. Don’t worry, Mikey.”
I sat beside her. “Come on Janey, what do I need to do?”
“Well…” she considered. “Would you put it on, Mike?”
“What?”
“If you put it on and stood on a chair I could see exactly what I was doing. I’d be done in no time.”
“You want me to wear your dress?”
“Oh, Mikey, only while I sew it. Pretty please?”
Why do I do these things? I shrugged and gave in.
I may not have mentioned that my sister and I were about the same size, and our physique was pretty similar apart from the fact that she had boobs. I was working on my muscle development with an exercise regime. I was starting slowly. The first exercise was managing to get out of bed in the morning.
Jane unzipped the dress and I stepped into it as she indicated. She then pulled it up, where it stuck about mid-way, shucking my t-shirt into folds about my waist.
“Bummer,” I said, “It’s too small.”
“No, no,” Janey said, “I know what’s wrong.” She made me step out of it. “Take your shirt and trousers off.”
“What?”
“Your trousers are too thick for it to slide up your body, and your t-shirt lumping up like that is stopping it fitting you.”
“Well, turn away then.”
“Come on, Mike, we used to share a bath together.”
“Then why don’t we now?”
That shut her up. I turned my back and slipped out of my shirt and trousers. This time the dress slid on easily, and Janey zipped it up. It felt quite OK really, a bit baggy at the top, but then I don’t have boobs, and it was odd to feel a skirt brushing my bare legs. My willie twitched. Think of Scotsmen.
I jumped up onto a wooden kitchen chair and, true to her word, my sister made short work of the sewing job.
“OK?” I jumped down when she had finished and turned round so that she could unzip me. When she didn’t I glanced round at her. She was looking at me with an odd expression on her face.
“What?”
“Would you humour me for a bit, Mike?”
“What does that mean? Come on, sis, let me out of here!”
“Mike, would you just come upstairs a minute?”
I sighed. “Yeah, yeah.” Sisters for you.
We went into her bedroom and she pushed me onto the bed. “I just want to try something,” she said, taking a brush from her dressing table.
I shrank back as she approached. “What’re you gonna do, Janey?”
“C’mon, Mike, bear with me. Think of it as an experiment.” She began brushing my hair. I sighed and let her get on with it. I was hungry, and dinner would be ready soon.
Finally she finished, and took my hand. “Here, look at this,” she said, and led me to the full-length mirror on her wardrobe door.
“What am I supposed to be looking…?” I began, and then stopped short. My reflection stared back at me, a stunned expression on its face. Janey had brushed my hair so that it had a centre parting, and it hung down each side of my face. With the dress on, my first impression was that I was looking at a girl!
“Janey?” I turned to her, puzzled.
“I know,” she told me. “I said the other day you had good legs. When you put the dress on I couldn’t believe how female it made you look. I had to change your hair to see if I was right.”
I felt flustered, embarrassed, angry and annoyed. “Are you saying I’m a girl?” I demanded.
She put a hand on my shoulder. “I know you’re not a girl,” she said. “Remember our communal baths as kids? I just thought how odd it was that, with a dress on and a slight change of hair-style, you could pass as a girl.”
“I’m not a sissy,” I hissed.
“Oh, Mikey, I know you’re not. Look how you stuck up for me at school today. I just wanted to see if what I thought was right.”
“OK, so now you have. Can I get changed now?”
“Sure.” She unzipped the dress as I ran trembling hands through my hair. I hurriedly put on my jeans and t-shirt, and looked in the mirror again for reassurance. Thank God! Macho Mikey again.
As we finished washing up after dinner, Jane hung her tea-towel neatly over the cooker rail and sidled up to me, putting a friendly arm around my shoulder.
“No,” I said, drying my hands and moving away.
“No what?” she asked, her eyes innocent.
“No whatever it is you’re going to ask. You look too friendly. I wouldn’t like it. No.”
“Don’t you trust anybody?”
“Yes, but not you when you’re like this.”
She ruffled my hair. “Come on, Mikey, you don’t know what I was going to ask.”
“Probably better that way,” I grunted, walking past her into the lounge and slumping down on the settee.
She pouted and sat next to me. “Come on, Mike, I just want to try something.”
I ignored her, picking up the television guide and looking through it.
She started tickling my ribs, knowing it would crack me up. It did. I finished up on the floor snorting with laughter with her straddling me.
“OK, OK, I give in. What do you want?”
“It’s just a hunch I’ve got. I want to try something with you to see if I’m right. It won’t take long.”
“OK, Quasimodo, so you’ve got a hunch. I ain’t agreein’ to nothin’ unless I knows what it am, babe.”
She swatted me. “Don’t call me babe. Babe was a pig!”
“Oh yeah. Sorry.”
“Well?”
“Tell me, Janey. What?”
She hesitated, looking a little embarrassed. “Well,” she began slowly, “You know you borrowed my panties and tights the other day…”
I looked up at her. I was still on the floor. “What about it?”
“And you helped me sort my dress out?”
I shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah.”
“And I sort of changed your hair for you…”
“You did change my hair for me. You thought I looked like a girl, Janey.”
“Yes. I wondered what it would be like if we did it properly.”
“Did what properly?”
“Err…dressed you up like a girl…”
“No way!” I tried to get up.
“I could do your hair properly and put some make-up on you…”
“Why would you want to…?”
“Mikey.” Jane stood up and helped me to my feet. “I reckon we could make you into a girl and no one would know any different.”
I sat down again. “Janey, why on earth would I want to look like a girl, let alone dress like one?”
“Because I think you could. Oh, come on, don’t be a spoilsport. What else have you got to do this evening?”
“Well,” I began, and stopped. Nothing.
She took my hand and started pulling. “Come on Mike. It’ll be a bit of fun. Pretty please.”
I reluctantly allowed her to pull me to my feet. I knew once my sister got an idea in her head she would worry away until it was accomplished. I grunted and followed her upstairs. Did I have just the tiniest pleasurable memory of wearing her panties?
I sat on her bed. “What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing. I’ll do it all. All you need to do is get undressed.”
“Janey, why are we doing this?”
“Oh, come on. We used to dress up as kids!”
“I don’t remember wearing girls’ clothes as a kid.”
“Well, you didn’t. Come on, Mikey, strip!”
“If you think I’m going to stand in front of you buck naked…”
As I was speaking she had delving into that old pine chest again. She threw a pair of freshly laundered white panties at me.
“Shut up and put these on. That’ll save your modesty.”
I sighed heavily and turned my back on her. What the hell was I doing? I asked myself as I divested myself of my clothes. I pulled on the panties, remembering the snug feel as I adjusted myself in them. Satisfied that I was as decent as I could be under the circumstances, I faced my sister. “What now?”
She was swinging a white bra in her hand by the straps. “You’ll have to have boobs,” she said, grabbing my arms and slipping them through the straps.
“Why do I have to have boobs?” I asked as she clipped the bra behind me.
“How old are you, Mikey?”
The question took me by surprise. “Fourteen. You know that.”
“I had boobs when I was fourteen.”
“Did you?”
“You mean you didn’t notice? Men!”
“Janey, you’re my sister. Why would I want to look at your boobs?”
She’d vanished to her drawers again. Triumphantly she brought out a couple of pairs of rolled up socks.
“Here we go. Instant bust!” She padded out the bra cups with the socks and adjusted the straps. “How does that feel?”
“Uncomfortable. Why am I letting you do this?”
“Because you love your sister.”
“No, because I’ll get permanent earache if I don’t.”
“Here.” She handed me a pair of her black tights. “Put these on. You know how. You wore some the other day.”
I plonked my backside down on her bed and worked the tights up my legs with a heavy sigh. The things I do for peace and quiet.
“I was right,” Janey commented, “You do have nice legs. Come over here.” She patted the stool in front of her dressing table. I obediently crossed the room and sat down.
“Now,” she instructed, “I’m going to put some make-up on your face. Don’t wriggle, and do what I tell you, especially if I tell you to close your eyes.”
“Why?”
“’Cause if you don’t I’m likely to blind you with a mascara brush or something!”
“Mascara? Are you going to make me look like a tart?”
She flicked my ear lobe. “I wear mascara. Are you saying I’m a tart?”
“No Janey” I said meekly.
“Anyway, I’m only going to use a little bit. It’ll either prove my point or not.”
“What point’s that?”
“Let’s wait until we’ve finished,” she said evasively.
She must have spent a good five minutes fiddling with my face, turning it this way and that, flicking various brushes over it, and issuing orders every few seconds for me to turn this way and that. She nearly, as prophesied, put my eye out when she was doing whatever it was she was doing with them, and it was quite a relief when she finally said “Almost done” and began putting lipstick on my mouth.
As she tidied her bits back into a small bag on the dressing table I moved to look in the mirror. She blocked my view.
“Not yet,” she told me. “I’ve got to do your hair and find you something to wear yet.”
I did my famous grunt. Neanderthal man lives.
Out came the brush, and the sweeping changes. Once she’d finished she opened her wardrobe and looked inside.
“Here,” she said.
I joined her, gazing in confusion at the profusion of clothes she had suspended from hangers.
“When do you get to wear all these?”
“Trust me, I do,” she said. “Now, what do you fancy?”
“What do I fancy?” I parroted. “I don’t fancy any of it. I’m only doing this because you badgered me into it!”
She laughed. “You are an old grump. Here, how about this? It’s a pretty colour. I reckon it’d suit you.”
She brought out a dark blue dress and held it up in front of me. “Yes,” she murmured, “Perfect.”
Unzipping it at the back, she held it low so that I could step into it, then pulled it up my body slowly until my arms had been guided into the right places. Then she zipped it up.
Dare I say it felt really good? The top bit fitted nicely because of the sock bust she had created, the waist fitted snugly to me and the skirt flared out slightly. It could have been made to measure, I thought, and flushed.
“Mm.” Janey walked around me. “Very nice. Give us a twirl.”
“What?”
“A twirl. You know, turn round quickly.”
I obeyed, and felt the skirt fly out and then fall delicately back in place. The feeling as the material brushed my stockinged legs was incredible. I felt my willie doing that twitch thing again.
“Shoes.” Jane was on her hands and knees ferreting in the wardrobe. Golly, I thought, she’s got a nice bum. I flushed again. That was my sister I was letching about. I reminded myself to get a good look at her boobs when I thought she wasn’t watching.
She backed out, pushed me onto the bed and fitted a pair of black low-heeled court shoes on my feet. Again, they fitted. I did say we were about the same size, didn’t I?
I looked up from the shoes to see Janey staring at me with her mouth open. “Here, Mikey,” she said quietly, “Come and have a look in the mirror.”
“We’ve done this before,” I thought as I confronted…
Just who did I confront? Who was this girl staring back at me from the mirror? Old macho Mikey had vanished, and in his place stood a teenaged girl who looked a lot older than my fourteen years. Her shortish dark brown hair was swept across her forehead and around her ears in a very fetching way, and the light touches of cosmetic that Janey had applied made her look just the right side of youthful innocence. Her dress fitted superbly, accentuating a figure I was most surprised to see I possessed, and her long shapely legs clad in the black tights were to die for. She was the sort of girl you ache to suddenly see across a crowded room. I fell in love with her.
Shit! What was I saying! This was me I was looking at. I stared at Janey, dumbfounded.
She nodded, satisfied. “I knew it,” she told me. “I knew you’d look like a girl if I dressed you and made you up properly.”
I returned to reality. “OK, Janey, but so what?”
Her face fell. “Don’t you like it?”
I hated to disappoint my sister. “Of course I do, Janey, in fact I think it’s great, but apart from satisfying your desire to prove you could do it, what practical use is it?”
“But don’t you think you look pretty?”
“Janey, I think the girl in the mirror looks beautiful!” Her face brightened. “But I’m not a girl, Janey. This is a one-off! It won’t happen again!”
“Oh, Mikey,” she sighed, touching my arm. Her face brightened. “Not Mikey,” she said excitedly, “Michaela! You can be Michaela!”
I started to reply when the phone started ringing downstairs.
“That’ll be mum. Come on!”
I followed her down to the lounge, watching my feet carefully as I descended the stairs.
“Hi, mum,” Janey sang, and I flopped down on the settee, prepared for a long wait. Once they start gabbing you might as well go away for a fortnight.
I finally managed to speak with my mother.
“How are things going, Mikey?”
“Great. Missing you though.”
“Janey said you had a problem with your clothes earlier in the week?”
“Err…yeah, but it’s OK now.”
“Well, it’s only your school things you need to worry about. I expect you’re slopping about in your usual t-shirt and jeans now, aren’t you?”
I looked down at the blue dress and flushed. “Yeah, something like that,” I agreed.
“Well, I’ve told Janey all the news. She’ll fill you in. I’ll see you soon.”
“Yeah, bye mum.”
The doorbell had sounded as we were saying our final goodbyes, and I could vaguely hear Janey talking to someone at the front door. As I put the phone down she came into the front room closely followed by my best friend Pete.
“No, sorry, Pete,” Janey was saying, “He’s gone out somewhere tonight.”
“Oh.” Pete looked a bit put out. As he caught sight of me Janey said, “Oh, this is a friend of mine. I don’t think you know her. Michaela, this is Pete, Mikey’s friend.”
I wanted to look daggers at her, and I also wanted very badly to go to the loo. However, either of those options wouldn’t have gone down too well, and my mate might just have smelled a rat.
As it was, instead of saying “Hey, Mikey, why are you wearing a dress?” he just nodded at me and turned back to Janey.
“Could you tell him I popped round on the off-chance?” he asked her.
“Of course we will, won’t we Mickey?”
Pete glanced at me again and I nodded brightly. My throat had dried up. I didn’t want to croak at him.
“Thanks. Bye Janey. Bye Michaela. Nice to meet you.”
I waved a limp hand as he followed Janey from the room, and I heard the front door close.
Janey returned, her eyes bright. “Mikey, he didn’t realise it was you!”
I sank exhausted on to the settee. “Janey, I’m too young to have a heart attack. Why did you do that?” I could feel sweat on my face.
“Because I knew he wouldn’t recognise you! And he didn’t! And you’re his best friend!”
“But Janey, suppose he had recognised me?”
“But he didn’t!”
“No, but if he had, can you imagine school tomorrow?”
She sat beside me and gave me a hug. “But he didn’t,” she repeated. “I bet no one would.”
I stood up. “No one else is going to get the chance,” I told her. “Nice experiment, Janey, but I’m going to change. No more Mickey, hello Mikey!”
She followed me up to her bedroom. “Just give me a second before you change,” she asked.
I sank onto her bed.
“Mike.”
I looked up. A blinding flash caused stars to wheel around the room. Dazed, I stood up. A couple more flashes followed. As my eyes returned to normal I saw Janey was holding her digital camera.
“Janey, what are you doing?”
She pouted. “I did a good job on you, Mikey. I wanted to remember it. Why don’t you let me take a few more, and smile nicely this time?”
Too tired and emotionally drained to argue I did as she asked before stripping off Michaela’s clothing and sinking into a nice hot bath before I went to bed.
Thursday
Great day! Susie joined us again on our trek to school, unloading her school bag on me before huddling up with her sister, Becky and Jane to giggle over girly things. Was I being used? Perhaps I was looked on merely as a beast of burden? Nah. She loved me really. I hope.
Pete, Arthur and I trudged on in silence, each wrapped in our individual contemplation, until Pete suddenly stopped short. Arthur and I took a couple more steps before realising he was missing, and turned.
“Mikey,” said Pete. “Who is Michaela?”
“What?”
The girls had noticed our lack of movement and turned back to join us.
“Yes,” echoed Susie,” Who is Michaela?”
“Michaela?” I said blankly. “Michaela who?”
Jane was staring at me in an odd way. Susie was staring at me with hard eyes. Becky and Ally just looked on in curiosity.
“Didn’t Janey tell you?” asked Pete. “I came round last night and you’d gone out. There was a friend of hers there called Michaela.”
I hoped the sweat on my brow wasn’t noticeable. I shrugged. “I don’t know any Michaelas,” I said. “If she’s a friend of Janey’s, ask her.”
There’s no loyalty even in family. If looks could kill…well, you know the rest. Everyone looked at Jane. Happily, Susie’s expression had softened a little.
“Ah,” said Janey. “I knew Mikey…er…Michaela…in my first school. She…moved away. Her parents have come down to visit relatives, and she popped in to see me.”
“Never heard of her,” said Ally. Becky nodded in agreement.
“No…er…we were friendly before I met up properly with you guys. Then, as I say, she moved away.”
Everyone seemed satisfied with the explanation, and Sue walked alongside me and held my hand. I silently let out a breath of relief.
“Well,” Pete carried on regardless, “She is a babe!”
“Oh?” Arthur perked up.
“Not a better babe than us, I hope, young Pedro,” Becky commented, flapping him gently around the head with her hand.
He dodged easily. “Well, actually,” he began, then seeing the look in both Ally’s and Becky’s eyes, “No, but a looker just the same. Any chance of seeing her again, Janey?”
“Mm,” my sister considered. “Maybe. She’s down for a few days.”
I gave her my Klingon death ray look. Unfortunately she’d pre-empted that by surrounding herself with a protective but invisible defensive shield and remained both alive and upright.
“Are you sure you don’t know this girl?” Susie nudged me, aggressively.
“Come on, Susie,” I said, “I wasn’t there when she called round. Anyway, if she’s Janey’s age she wouldn’t be interested in me, would she?”
“I’m not worried about her being interested in you.”
“Well, what then?”
She elbowed me in the ribs. “Just don’t you start getting any ideas, Mikey Nolan!”
I gave her my innocent until proven guilty look, you know, that dictum that women practice in reverse, crossed my fingers behind my back, and kept my mouth shut.
Another mundane school day winged by on leaden feet (how about that for a mixed metaphor!) and we three male musketeers headed for the school gates as fast as we could at the sound of the bell.
“Hey, guys!”
Jane, Ally and Becky caught us up and we trundled homeward. As we parted Becky said, “See you later, Janey!”
My sister waved. I looked askance. “Later?”
She avoided my glance. “We’re…er…going to the pictures tonight.”
“Thanks, Janey.”
“Just the girls, Mikey. Becky, Ally and me!”
“Oh, OK. Maybe I’ll scoot round to Susie’s then!”
“Mm.”
In fast, get changed, quick bite to eat, wash up. I slumped on the settee reading a music mag.
“Mikey.” Jane flopped down beside me.
“Are you going to get changed?” I asked, surprised. When she is going out, my sister spends the maximum part of the evening getting herself ready.
She took my hand. I snatched it back.
“What?”
“Mikey, when we arranged to go to the pictures, the girls asked me to see if Michaela wanted to join us…”
I stared at her. She nodded silently.
“And…”
“I said…”
“Yes?”
“I said I’d ask her.”
“She’s visiting with her parents,” I said.
“Oh, Mikey, she’s down here on her own with no one of her own age to mix with…”
“Janey, can you hear yourself? Michaela is a figment of your imagination. She does not exist.”
“Yes, but Mikey, suppose you could get away with it?”
“What?”
“Suppose you could fool them! Pete didn’t have a clue last night that it was you! Let’s see if you can get away with it with Ally and Becky!”
“No.”
“Oh, Mikey, go on…”
“Come on, Janey, it was bad enough yesterday, you pulling that stroke when Pete arrived. How can I trust you not to let me down again?”
“So you’d consider it then?”
“What? No. I meant…”
“I’ll do your share of the housework for the next week…”
“Janey, why do you keep wanting to see me in a dress?”
“I don’t. It’s just that, having seen what you look like dressed up on a couple of evenings I think it’d be great fun to have the girls over.”
“Great fun for who? And what if I turn up with you and they say ‘where’s Michaela? And why is Mikey wearing a dress?’”
“But they won’t! Please, Mikey, pretty please. I’ll fix you up again like yesterday and I promise cross my heart that no one will figure out who you are!”
“Janey…”
“Thanks, Mikey!”
“But, Janey…” But she had stood up and taken my hand, and we were half way upstairs while I was trying to think of a way out. Why was this happening to me? And why didn’t I have the strength of character to say ‘No!’?”
Having fixed me up with a peach-coloured satiny bra and panties, and helped me on with a pair of shiny black tights that she didn’t want me to ladder, Janey again spent some time making me up and organising my hair. Then she burrowed in her wardrobe and came out with a tartan mini-skirt.
She fitted it round me as I stood in front of the mirror, and my jaw dropped. It was tiny, and my black nylon-clad legs seemed to go on forever.
“I can’t wear this,” I gasped.
“Why not?”
“There’s nothing of it. You can see all the way up my legs to breakfast time!”
“Don’t be silly. I wear it all the time. It’s what girls wear.”
“But look at me…” I objected.
She took a step back. “I am. Mm. Great legs, babe.” She whistled inelegantly, and then held out a sleeveless black tank top. I pulled it on. It displayed my belly button.
“It’s too short!”
“Stop complaining. It’s the right size. It’s what I wear. It’s what Ally and Becky wear.”
I groaned.
Janey slipped a short leather jacket over my shoulders, sat me on the bed and fitted a chunky pair of black shoes on my feet. Then, raising me up, she allowed me to see the finished article.
Well, I’m sorry, but I liked what I saw. I knew that if I had really been a girl I would have had guys swarming around me like nobody’s business. I felt a little more confident as Janey sprayed some perfume around me.
Janey patted my shoulder. “Why don’t you go and sit downstairs while I get ready, Michaela?” she suggested.
Pavlov’s dog trotted as indicated and immersed himself (herself) in the music mag once more.
Fairly soon I was joined by my sister. She looked really great. I mentally appraised her boobs (I had promised myself I would), and was surprised at how nice they were. She’s your sister, dammit! Yeah, but even so, she’s a bit of a babe. No wonder Ben has the hots for her.
“Ready?”
“No.”
She took my arm. “It’ll be cool,” she said. “I bet no one guesses.”
“Do you want to put money on it?”
She paused. “OK. A fiver you get away with it.”
“Done. And when they all crease up with laughter at me, you come straight home with me.”
“OK.”
Her confidence boosted mine. We left the house.
Well, as we approached the cinema we attracted a few whistles from the local yobbos, but I was willing to bet that was on Janey’s account, not mine. My heart started beating faster as I spotted Ally and Becky waiting for us outside.
“Hi, girls,” said Jane breezily, “This is Michaela. Mickey, this is Ally, and Becky.”
Taking a deep breath and trying to remain calm I grinned at the two girls and said “Hi.”
“I thought I recognised you as you crossed the road,” Ally told me, and my heart sank. “I couldn’t picture you when Janey told us you’d been at school with us, but as soon as I saw your face it rang a bell!”
I relaxed a little.
“Shall we go in?” asked Janey.
“Oh, give it a couple of minutes, can we?” said Ally, “We’re waiting for…oh, here she is!”
Janey and I turned, to be confronted by Susie!
“Hi, Sue,” Ally said. “This is Michaela. Come on, let’s get our seats.”
Susie grinned at me, then her face changed subtly and I spotted a strange expression in her eyes.
We trooped in and found seats, and sat ourselves in the darkened auditorium. I found myself sandwiched between Susie and Janey.
As we settled down and the advertisements were displayed on the screen, Susie leaned over and whispered in my ear. “So why is Mikey dressed as a girl and pretending to be Michaela?”
I felt my face going beetroot red and gave thanks and praise for the all-engulfing darkness.
I sighed. “It’s a long story, Susie,” I told her.
I felt her take my hand. “You look really nice,” she said, and didn’t let go all through the evening.
She released me when we left the cinema, but we chatted in low tones as we trooped homeward.
“Will you tell me tomorrow?”
I nodded. “Can you come round after school?”
“Yes.”
“You won’t say anything to Ally or anyone?”
“Cross my heart.”
“I love you, Susie Parker.”
“Shh! Someone will hear you!”
Friday
Friday morning. Susie and me. Janey, Ally and Becky. Pete and Arthur. School.
“Hey, Mikey,” called Becky, “You need to watch out!”
“Why?”
“Janey’s friend Michaela came to the pictures with us last night. Pretty girl, but a bit strange. Seemed to be paying a lot of attention to Susie.”
Shit.
“You never told me you were going to the pictures last night,” I said to Sue with a straight face, while she put a hand over her mouth to stop laughing.
“Er…no,” she managed. “I decided at the last minute.”
“So what’s this about this Michaela girl then?”
Ally looked round. “I reckon she bats for the other side,” she said firmly. “She buttonholed Sue straight away and was talking to her all evening!”
“Ally!”
“It’s true, Susie. Deny it!”
Susie closed her mouth.
“Well, of course,” I said, “If you prefer this girl to me…”
Susie burst out giggling and we all stopped and stared at her until she finished.
Finally, “Oh, Mikey, I like her as much as I like you!”
“Huh!”
“Susie, you’re not into girls, are you?” asked Becky.
Ally barged her. “That’s my sister!” she exclaimed.
“I’m only asking.”
Susie took my arm. “No,” she told them, “I’ll take Mikey however he comes!”
After school Janey, Sue and I went to ours.
In the kitchen Janey got some Cokes from the fridge while Susie stood in front of me with her hands on her hips.
“Well, Mikey — or should I call you Michaela? What’s going on?”
I flushed. “Best you ask Janey,” I told her.
Janey giggled. “Well,” she giggled, “It was like this…”
I left them to it and sat in the lounge. The sound of muted conversation and giggling floated in to me as I tried to get to grips with the television guide.
Finally: “Mikey?” from the kitchen.
“Yeah?”
Susie appeared in the doorway and sat beside me on the settee. Janey stood in the doorway, still smiling.
“Mikey?”
“What?”
“Can I…you know..?”
“Can you what?”
“Well, you looked great last night! Ally and Becky had no idea who you were!”
“So how did you?”
“Oh, come on, Mike.”
“Hmm.”
“Anyway, I want to help.”
“Help what?”
“Help you dress up as a girl.”
I stared at her in astonishment. “Susie, I don’t want to do it again.”
“But you looked good, Mikey. Janey had done wonders with you. Let me try, why don’t you. It’ll be fun!”
Why did girls think dressing a guy up in their clothes would be fun? Fun for who?
“Told you, Susie, I don’t want to. Janey badgered me enough…”
“So you don’t really love me?” Her blue eyes were moist as she gazed at me and her lower lip trembled slightly.
“Yes, I do, but Susie…”
She took my hand. “Please, Mikey. I want to see if I can do as good a job as Janey. You don’t mind, do you?” she asked my sister.
Janey shook her head with a grin.
“Come on, Mikey.” She had hold of both my hands and was pulling me upright.
“What is it with you girls and dressing up?” I asked, puzzled. “Haven’t you got a Barbie doll you can do that with? You could put one of her dresses on Ken!”
“Don’t be an old grump.” She was dragging me to the door. “Pretty please, Mikey.”
Is ‘pretty please’ a magic incantation or something?
Wimpy Mike allowed himself to be led up the stairs. Janey followed. “Shall I give you a hand?” she asked.
Susie looked back at her. “Thanks, Janey.” She hugged me. “Oh, Mikey, this’ll be great fun!”
“Hm.”
I now had two girls ordering me about. In double quick time I had stripped down to my underpants and been presented with a pair of minuscule white panties to put on. With Janey assisting, Susie was soon fastening a white bra round me. As she stood in front of me she kissed me suddenly on the lips.
“Love you, Mikey,” she said.
“What’s he — she — going to wear, then?” Janey asked.
Susie’s eyes sparkled. “Let’s get her ready for school!”
What was this ‘her’ business?
With beautifully soft and warm hands Sue unrolled a pair of black hold-ups up my legs; wow, I really enjoyed that! I felt my willie twitching again. Then, standing me up, she made me a bust from the usual rolled up socks.
“All right if I do her make-up?” Sue asked Janey, who nodded. “If I can do her hair,” she said. Both girls laughed. My willie was now jerking a bit at my being bossed around by two females, but seemed quite secure trapped as it was in the panties.
At last, apparently satisfied with my appearance, Susie slipped a white school blouse on me and buttoned it up carefully over my bosom. A grey pleated school skirt of Janey’s followed (one of the short ones), and then Sue looked thoughtful.
“Have you got a school tie?”
“Never wear it,” said Janey, but started looking through a drawer anyway. “Here it is!”
“Great!” Susie tied it around my neck loosely, leaving the top button of the blouse undone.
A pair of Janey’s black school shoes were fitted to my feet, and finally Janey handed Susie an old school blazer. That was soon on me as well.
Susie stepped back. “Oh, wow, Mikey…I mean Michaela…you look great!” She dragged me in front of the mirror.
I almost had an orgasm in Janey’s panties. Mikey had completely gone this time. Reflected in the mirror was schoolgirl Michaela looking really sexy in her short school skirt with her long legs encased in black nylon. If that girl had been real, it would have been a toss up between her and Susie, I thought.
Janey was impressed. “Susie, that’s wonderful. How do you feel, Mikey…er…Michaela?”
“Yeah, OK,” I said. Strangely, I felt really good. Over the last few days I had become to appreciate that there was a feel-good factor about female clothing. It was soft to the touch, light to wear, and apart from the unaccustomed restriction of the bra and panties had a feeling of freedom not found in my own heavy trousers and shirts. I wasn’t going to give the girls the satisfaction of knowing my true feelings, however.
“Oh, Michaela!” Susie kissed me hard on my red lips.
Janey chuckled. “So you do like girls!” she said.
Susie hugged me. “I like this one,” she told my sister, and kissed me again. I could handle that, I thought.
Downstairs, the phone rang.
Janey spent a long time talking to mum, her face downcast, before handing the phone to me.
“Hi, mum.”
“Hello, darling. Are you all right?”
“Yeah. What’s up?”
“Janey will explain, but I won’t be coming back for another week. Can you cope?”
“Don’t want to, mum, we miss you, but yeah, if we have to.”
“Are you two getting along all right?”
I looked at my school outfit. “Like a couple of sisters,” I said a trifle bitterly.
“Mikey?”
I laughed. It was all so silly. “Yeah, we’re getting on fine,” I told her, winking at Janey and Susie.
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
Janey explained that there was a bit more work involved with mum’s job and that she had been asked to stay on. Mum being mum, she had agreed.
“Now,” she said briskly, “Are you staying for dinner, Sue?”
“Can I?”
“Of course.”
“What’re we going to have?” I asked, cutting to the chase.
Janey thought. “It’s Friday. Let’s pop round the fish shop for fish and chips.”
“Great!” I headed for the stairs.
“Where are you going?” asked Susie.
“Er…I’m gonna get changed.”
“What, after all my hard work?”
“You don’t expect me to go down the fish shop like this, do you?”
“Why not?”
I blinked. “Suppose I bump into someone I know?”
“What, like Ally or Becky last night?”
I grunted. Susie took my arm. “Why don’t you and I go and get the grub while Janey warms up plates and stuff?”
“But I’m dressed in school uniform.”
“So am I,” said Susie.
“But it’s a girls school uniform.”
“So is mine.”
“But Susie, you are a girl. I’m not.”
“Come on, Michaela, you proved last night that no one would recognise you.”
“You recognised me.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Oh, it just is. Come on, we’ll only be five minutes.” She pulled at my arm.
I sighed. I have no moral backbone. How do I get myself in these situations?
Susie and I marched arm in arm to the local chippy, she clinging close to me in the most delightful way. So smitten was I by the fact that this gorgeous girl liked me enough to want to go out with me that I soon forget my attire.
It was only as the lights from the fish shop windows illuminated the pavement that I came back to reality.
“It’s a bit bright,” I said.
“Don’t worry, Mikey, absolutely no one is going to realise you’re a boy. I wouldn’t lie to you. Just have a bit of confidence!”
I followed her into the warm shop and bumped into Arthur and Pete.
“Hi Susie, hello…well, I guess you must be Michaela,” Arthur smiled, and undressed me with his eyes.
Yes, I know, and I’m a guy and I’ve done it, too, so I do know what I’m talking about.
Pete gave me one of his winning grins, you know, the ones he reserves for girls he wants to impress. “Susie, Micky,” he said.
I studied him from the corner of my eye. He’d said ‘Micky.’ Was that short for Michaela or was he being clever? Had he realised my true identity and was playing games?
“What are you two doing here?” asked Arthur.
“We’re getting kebabs,” Susie told him.
“But it’s a chippy,” he objected, and then light dawned. “Oh, very funny, ha ha.”
“Hey, Michaela, I didn’t know you went to our school. I thought you were only here for a few days?”
I opened my mouth to speak when Susie butted in. “It’s an old blazer of Janey’s. She lent it to Micky ‘cos it’s a bit cold tonight.”
“Oh.”
Arthur placed his order then turned to me. “So how do you like it down here?”
I nodded. “It’s OK,” I said quietly, but with a smile.
“Met any guys you fancy?”
“Arthur!”
“It’s a fair question. Have you?” He gave me what was, for him, a winning grin. I shuddered mentally.
“None I fancy,” I told him.
“Not even me?” asked Pete.
“Especially not you,” I said.
Susie laughed and Arthur grinned again. Pete winked.
“Of course,” Arthur went on, “Susie’s sister thinks you like girls, not men.” Born diplomat, that one.
“Don’t be so rude!” Susie snapped, elbowing him in the ribs.
“Actually,” I said, “I do like girls, but only because there are no real men around here!”
Arthur’s jaw dropped.
“Unless of course,” I added, sidling up to him (what on earth had got into me then?), “You’re a real man?”
He goggled at me.
“D’you think you could make me happy, Art?” I whispered in his ear.
He flushed as Pete and Sue burst out laughing, and grabbed their order. He and Pete left the shop.
“See you later,” said Susie, and placed our order.
“Mikey, you were great!” she told me.
“Was I?”
“Yeah. You handled him just like I would have. Score one for the women!”
“Hm. You don’t think they’ve worked it out yet?”
“No, but I was a bit worried they might wait for us. Then we’d have had to buy and extra portion of food.”
“What for?”
“Who for, silly. Mikey, of course. You, me, Janey and Mikey!”
“Oh.”
We all love fish and chips, and tucked in like nobody’s business when we got back. Again, I completely forgot I was wearing girly things, except when Janey or Susie kept reminding me to keep my knees together.
“We don’t want to see what you had for breakfast,” Susie told me.
We had a great evening until Susie suddenly said “Mikey, are we going out tomorrow?”
“Sure, where do you want to go?”
“I don’t know. We could spend a day at the coast.”
“Sounds good.”
“What are you doing, Janey?”
“I’m doing a shopping binge with Becky and your sister.”
“Great. So we’re on then, Mikey?”
“Sure.”
“Mikey?”
“Hm.”
“Can you come as Michaela?”
“What?”
“Spend the day with me as Michaela?”
“Why?”
She paused. Looking at me speculatively, “Dunno. I like you as Micky. I mean, I like you as Mikey, too, but in a different way. I’d like to spend a day with Micky, I think.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“No.”
“Pretty please.”
“Pretty no.”
“I hate you, Mikey Nolan, or Michaela whatever you are.”
“Oh for crying out loud…”
She wrapped her arms around me. “Mikey, Mikey, Mikey, I’ll love you forever if you do.”
“Susie, sooner or later someone’s going to twig that Michaela is me. I’d rather not be Michaela when that happens.”
“Eh?”
“Whatever. Why do you keep wanting me to swan around in my sister’s clothes?”
“Because you look great in them. And I like you as Michaela. You’re my friend.”
“Aren’t I your friend as Mike?”
“Yes, my boy-friend. That’s different. Tomorrow I fancy going out with my girl friend, like Janey going out with Ally and Becky.”
I appealed to my sister. “Do you know what she’s going on about?”
“Yes.”
I sighed. “I don’t believe it.”
“Oh, come on Mikey. Look how successful you’ve been so far. And admit it, you’re getting to like girly clothes, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, well, it’s better than running around in the nude.”
Janey nudged me. “Admit it, Mikey, you’re getting fond of my bras and panties.”
“And wearing short skirts,” added Susie.
“And showing off your beautiful long legs in black tights.”
I looked down at my legs. Yeah, they did look great.
“So that’s settled, then,” Susie grinned.
“What?”
“Thanks Mikey.” She kissed me. Damn women. What a spineless git I am.
“Come by first thing in the morning, Susie, and we’ll get Michaela ready,” Janey said.
The only saving grace that night was the hug and kiss Susie gave me when she left. I guess there are advantages to this dressing up lark.
Saturday
Susie arrived bright and early on the Saturday morning to find Jane and me in the middle of our breakfast. Jane had obviously set her alarm and hauled me, virtually comatose, from beneath the sheets. Good job I don’t sleep in the nude.
Her excuse was that they would need plenty of time to get me ready for what she termed my ‘big day.’ Me, I was having second thoughts, and was reflectively chewing toast whilst trying to think of a way out of this situation that would keep Susie sweet on me.
In the event, my transformation wasn’t too harrowing. The two girls decided all I needed was minimal underwear, panties and a bra to stuff with socks, a flimsy summer dress and a pair of open-toed sandals.
Janey applied a light touch of make-up while Susie did my hair. I felt cheated.
“Don’t you think I need to be wearing a bit more?” I protested at the light frock I was wearing. “I had more protection before!”
“Don’t be so moany,” reproved Susie, “It’s a nice day and we’ll be at the coast. No one goes around in enormous overcoats in summer.”
Janey stepped back and nodded to Susie. “OK, mirror time!”
I looked at myself. I’ve got to say it, I made a pretty good-looking girl, and was quite sexy in the short dress. My legs went on endlessly, and although slightly muscled would have looked good on any real girl.
The two girls laughed as I stared for what seemed like ages at the babe in front of me.
“Just remember,” Janey warned me, “With a dress this short and swirly you need to think every time you sit down. You don’t want people to get an eyeful of your pants, especially with the lump in them that yours have got. That’d be a dead giveaway.”
I dragged myself away from the mirror. I looked just like any friend of Susie’s looked when they go off out together. I raised my eyebrows at her, and she gave me a kiss on the cheek.
“You look great,” she told me.
“So what’s wrong with my lips, then?”
“I’m not going to be seen in public kissing another girl on the lips!”
“We’re not in public yet,” I pointed out.
“Oh, no.” She put her arms around my neck and gave me a snog.
“OK, break it up,” laughed Janey, pulling us apart. “Here.” She handed me a small white bag with a long strap. “That will hold your money and stuff. It goes over your shoulder.”
I noticed Sue had a similar bag. Were we the terrible twins, or what?
“Ready?”
“No.”
“Oh, come on Mikey — er — Michaela — er — Mickey. You’ve even got me fooled, and I helped to dress you!”
I gave an exaggerated sigh. “Come on then. Just don’t blame me if I make tomorrow’s headlines.”
As we headed out the front door Janey called Susie back. “Here, do you want to take this?” she asked, and gave the girl her digital camera.
“What’s that for?” I said.
Susie smiled. “You take photographs with it,” she told me sweetly. I fell about laughing, with my legs kicking in the air. Not.
It was indeed a nice day, the sun was warm and there was a slight breeze that rippled my dress as we walked along towards the train station. No wonder girls wear very little on days like these. It felt great.
Our trip to the coast was uneventful, if you call being chatted up by every group of lads travelling with us uneventful. At first I felt nervous about it, but I followed Susie’s chirpy and cheeky lead in repartee, and soon realised that none of them had a clue that I wasn’t exactly what I looked — a young girl on a day out with her mate.
We had a leisurely day, buying snacks to eat for a picnic lunch while sitting on the beach and watching the white-capped blue waves breaking gently over the powdery browny-yellow sand.
Then we walked along the coastline, bare feet splashing through the warm water, or chased each other through the sparse grassy clumps further from the water. The only problem I found was that when I caught her, Susie adamantly refused me a victor’s kiss. “I don’t want people to think we’re a couple of lesbians,” she said reasonably.
A small fun-fair caught our eye, and we spent a happy afternoon on the rides and trying our hand at the various shooting galleries and hoop-la stalls, each of us winning a couple of large furry animals in the process.
I quickly forgot my unusual attire, and threw myself into the day whole-heartedly. We were just a couple of teenage girls having a lot of fun.
The day came to a regrettable conclusion and, tired out but happy, we jumped on the train to return home. We found an empty carriage, and Susie leaned her head on my shoulder and held my hand.
“I love you, Mikey Nolan,” she said.
“Oh. Why?”
She shrugged. “Lots of things.” She sat up and waved her hand at my clothing. “This, for one. Not many guys would do this for a girl.”
“Just call me Mikey wimp,” I told her.
“No,” she said decisively. “If you really hadn’t wanted to do it, I know you would have said no. You did it ‘cause I asked you, and it took a lot of guts.”
This time she did kiss me, and a warm glow spread all over my body.
We walked from the station back to mine arm in arm, which is apparently a girly thing to do, so I didn’t mind.
I opened the front door with my key and stood aside to let Sue go first. As I followed her in, a voice said “Hello, Suzie. Oh, I thought you were with Mike. How comes you’ve got a key?”
I stood staring at my mother, whose face must have resembled mine for total shock and amazement.
“Mikey? Why are you dressed like that?”
My sister was framed in the sitting room doorway mouthing upset apologies.
“Er,” I said intelligently.
Suddenly mum reverted to type. “What’s been going on here? Just as well I insisted on coming back for the weekend! Susie,” she turned on the distraught girl, “Just you get on home now! I’ll talk to you later! And your mother!”
“But Mrs No…”
“That’s enough, Susan! Go, before I get even angrier!”
As Sue turned to go I spotted tears in her eyes. She went without another word.
“Janey, I’ll deal with you later!” Mum snapped at my flushed and shamefaced sister. “Mikey, you come with me!” She grabbed my arm, and dragged me, stumbling, upstairs to my bedroom.
“Get out of those clothes,” she stormed, slamming the bedroom door behind us.
“Can I...?” I began.
“No!”
More than a little embarrassed to be undressing in front of my mother I kicked Janey’s shoes off and pulled the summer frock up and over my head.
My mother’s jaw dropped. “Mikey, you’re wearing Janey’s bra and panties!”
It was really a statement of fact and a question both rolled into one.
“Er…yeah…well…we thought it’d look better if I wore the right gear,” I mumbled, realising even as I spoke how weak it sounded.
“And look at your face! Who put your make-up on?”
Defensively I said “How do you know it wasn’t me?” trying to protect Susie and my sister.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mikey! That’s been put on by someone who’s been using cosmetics for some time!” She looked at me sharply. “Unless there’s something you want to tell me?”
“Like what?”
She gestured impatiently at my underwear, and I started to divest myself of Janey’s cast-offs.
“Well, perhaps you’ve been borrowing your sister’s clothes for some time. Perhaps you’ve been wearing make-up for a little longer than I think!”
“Mum!” I protested, in what sounded even to me like a whiney voice. I turned my back on her as I pulled of my panties and got into a pair of boxer shorts.
My mother made a sound like a horse snorting. “For God’s sake put some proper clothes on,” she snapped, “And get in the bathroom and get rid of that make-up! What on earth has been going on here while I’ve been away?”
“Well,” I began.
“Don’t!” She raised a warning hand, palm forward. “Just get that stuff off your face and get dressed properly!”
When I returned, freshly scrubbed and wearing jeans and a t-shirt, she was sitting on my bed, head bowed.
“Well?”
Haltingly I told her the whole sorry story, playing down Janey and Sue’s involvement as much as possible. I tried to make it seem like a prank, a joke.
“But you went out with Susie wearing girl’s clothes.”
“Er…yeah.”
“How long were you out?”
“Er…all day…”
“What?”
“Er…we went to the coast, Mum…”
“You’re telling me you’ve been wearing those clothes all day? And you’ve been for a day out in public like that? What’s wrong with you, Mikey?”
“Oh…well…I guess we thought it’d be a bit of a laugh…”
“We?” questioned my Mother shrewdly.
“Me,” I said quickly. Too quickly.
Mum sighed. “OK, Mikey, let me tell you how it was, shall I? For some reason Janey managed to get you into her clothes. Susie found out and wanted to spend the day with her ‘new’ girl-friend. Something like that?”
I wriggled uncomfortably. “Well, a little bit,” I admitted. “But I went along with it.”
“It’s good of you to defend them, dear, but I guess I know where the pressure was coming from.”
I remained silent.
Mum took my hand. “Do you like wearing girl’s clothes, Mikey?”
I blinked. “Well,” I admitted, “The pants were quite comfortable, and I guess the tights were OK once I got used to them…”
“And the dress?”
I paused. “Well, I felt all right today, again when I got used to it.”
“Would you want to dress up again?”
“Well,” I confessed, “I didn’t want to any of those times. It just sort of happened, I guess.”
“Mikey.” She looked at me intently. “Do you like boys?”
“I like Pete and Arthur.”
Her mouth twitched a little. “All right then. Do you fancy boys?”
“What?”
“You know what I mean.”
I was affronted. “No I don’t! Mum, Susie Parker just agreed to be my girl-friend! She’s nothing like a boy!”
“Hmm. After today’s little escapade I don’t know if I approve of that relationship!”
“Oh, come on mum! I’ve fancied her for ages, and as soon as I get something going with her you want to put a stop to it!”
“By ‘something going’ I presume you mean she wants you as a girl-friend?”
“I hope not!” I retorted hotly, and then blushed. “Oh, sorry mum. Well you know what I mean.”
“I’m glad to hear you say it,” she said, “But have a bit of respect for her if you are going to be a couple. I like Susie, but I don’t want to be a grandmother just yet.”
“Mum!” I protested, retaining my blush.
Telling me to go to bed she went downstairs to talk to Janey.
Sunday
I don’t know what Mum and Janey talked about, but in the morning my sister was very quiet indeed, casting glances in my direction from under her fringe. I became worried. Did she think I had blamed her for what had happened?
I managed to get her on her own in her bedroom after breakfast.
“Janey, I didn’t tell Mum what really happened…” I began.
“I know,” she interrupted me. “Mikey, thanks for trying to take the blame, but you know Mum’s a witch. She really went to town on me last night, firstly for starting all this in the first place, and then for helping Susie yesterday.”
“I didn’t…”
“Mikey, I know. Stop beating yourself up over it, I know you tried to keep us out of it. But I admitted it was mainly my fault. I’m older than you and Susie and should have known better.”
I left her making her bed, very downcast.
Later, a very contrite Susie came round and asked to speak to mum in private. Mum told Janey to join them, and me to go up to my bedroom — again. I was spending so much time up there I felt like Rip Van Winkle.
I don’t know what she said to the girls, but I heard her heading upstairs to my bedroom, and after knocking she came in closely followed by Janey, who looked really embarrassed.
“Right,” said my mum, “I’ve had a long talk with Mikey last night and I know where he stands. Janey, I asked you to come up with me because I want to ask you an important question concerning Mikey, and he has a right to know what you say.”
Janey looked at me questioningly, but I had to shrug my shoulders and raise my eyebrows.
“All right Janey. I want you to choose. If you could only have one for the rest of your life, who would it be: Mikey or Michaela?”
Janey’s jaw dropped, but she didn’t hesitate for a second. “Michaela’s been a bit like a sister to me,” she said, “Something I’ve never had. But Ally and Becky are like sisters to me as well. I’ve got a feeling that Susie’s going to be a sister in a few years, anyway, the way things are heading. I love my brother for all his funny ways, and there’s no way I want to lose him!”
“Hey, Janey,” I said, and she winked at me.
Mum called Susie up, and repeated her question.
Susie didn’t pause for moment. She came and sat next to me on the bed and took my hand. Looking at my mum she said, “Michaela’s been great fun and a good girl-friend, you couldn’t ask better, but there’s no choice. I want Mikey.”
Impulsively, and despite mum being there she gave me a hug and kissed me full on the lips. Wow!
Well, we all hugged each other, and it was great and I felt a bit choked, but it passed.
So that was that, and Michaela packed her bags and went back with her parents to wherever it was she had come from, and we never saw her again.
Or did we?
Notes:
It had been another normal Friday night for us, differing only in the fact that Barry’s girl-friend, Jean, had accompanied us this time on the regular evening pub outing. The reason for that was because Barry was showing off as usual.
Barry had passed his driving test at the beginning of the week, and his father had presented him with the old family car, he having meanwhile bought a new one for himself.
Our friend had chauffeured us all in his new acquisition, and of course that meant that Jean had to come along as well. If you can’t show off to your girl-friend there’s just no justice in the world. Besides, as impressed as Harry and I might be, we’d only take the Mickey out of him. We actually didn’t mind Jean coming along, we had known her and her family for a long time, and we were all friends.
The evening had flown by in its usual manner, in a pub, although not our usual tavern. Because he now had wheels Barry had felt the need to explore, and so we ended up a long way from our normal watering holes. However, the beer was good, and bolstered up our conversation, and by the time last orders was called we all, Jean, Barry, Harry and I, had had more than enough to drink.
We clambered unsteadily into Barry’s chariot, Harry and me in the back, Jean in the front passenger seat and Barry behind the wheel, and set off in the general direction of our various homes. One thing about Barry, he didn’t mind taking us around, although that may also have been part of his showing off routine.
“When shall we three meet again?” Harry quoted ghoulishly.
Part 1
By Kim Johns
It had been another normal Friday night for us, differing only in the fact that Barry’s girl-friend, Jean, had accompanied us this time on the regular evening pub outing. The reason for that was because Barry was showing off as usual.
Barry had passed his driving test at the beginning of the week, and his father had presented him with the old family car, he having meanwhile bought a new one for himself.
Our friend had chauffeured us all in his new acquisition, and of course that meant that Jean had to come along as well. If you can’t show off to your girl-friend there’s just no justice in the world. Besides, as impressed as Harry and I might be, we’d only take the Mickey out of him. We actually didn’t mind Jean coming along, we had known her and her family for a long time, and we were all friends.
The evening had flown by in its usual manner, in a pub, although not our usual tavern. Because he now had wheels Barry had felt the need to explore, and so we ended up a long way from our normal watering holes. However, the beer was good, and bolstered up our conversation, and by the time last orders was called we all, Jean, Barry, Harry and I, had had more than enough to drink.
We clambered unsteadily into Barry’s chariot, Harry and me in the back, Jean in the front passenger seat and Barry behind the wheel, and set off in the general direction of our various homes. One thing about Barry, he didn’t mind taking us around, although that may also have been part of his showing off routine.
“When shall we three meet again?” Harry quoted ghoulishly.
“Definitely next Friday,” said Barry, “I’ve heard of another great pub we can try out!”
“What about Saturday?” I asked. “Anybody know of any parties?”
At seventeen, neither Harry nor I were dating regularly, just doing the rounds in the girl stakes as often as possible, and the best opportunities for meeting women that we had found were at a party. Parties contributed the added plus of alcohol, which loosened our tongues, promoted confidence and vanquished shyness. At least, it did for me. Harry had a natural instinct with girls, and didn’t seem to need additional stimulant, whereas I was a bit shy and as the consequence of being an only child not very knowledgeable about the fair sex and therefore required a bit of an artificial boost to my libido.
“I’m going to a party,” announced Jean in the smug way she has, smiling into the rear view mirror at us.
“Are you?” said Barry, sounding surprised as he took his eyes off the road to look at her and causing the car to veer gently towards the centre line. “You never told me. Where are we going?”
Jean turned to him. “I didn’t tell you because you’re not invited,” she informed him mysteriously.
“No?” Barry’s mouth turned downwards, sulky. He didn’t like it when he wasn’t told what his girl-friend was up to, or when things weren’t going his way. “Who are you going with, then?”
My alcohol-befuddled brain urged me into speech. “Don’t be rotten, Jean,” I interrupted. “You’re going to a party and you didn’t want to tell us? You can take us, surely?”
Jean turned round in her seat. “No, I can’t. If you must know, it’s a girls’ get-together. A lot of old school-friends and various people we’ve all met at work are going to be there. No men allowed!”
I whistled. “Except for me, Jean! All those women and you’re trying to exclude us! Surely you could take me with you!”
Jean laughed. “Not unless you want to wave a magic wand and turn yourself into a female! It’s strictly girls only! No exceptions.”
I slumped back in the seat, easily beaten. I hadn’t really been too worried anyway, I just liked trying to get a rise out of Barry’s girl who I secretly adored, although sometimes she seemed a bit too straight-laced to my mind. Perhaps that had something to do with her Catholic school upbringing, I mused silently.
Conversation was held in abeyance for a short while as we continued driving through the dark, moonless night, although even in my bleary state I did notice Barry glancing in the rear-view mirror at Harry on a number of occasions, and observed their eyebrows raised and lowered in some form of wordless communication. Harry had his usual enigmatic smile pasted across his face, typical after a few drinks.
After a while Barry cleared his throat. “Jean, do you reckon you could take a friend to this party?”
She looked at him, puzzled. “Well, yes, but not you. I told you, it’s a girls’ party.”
“Suppose we set up a dare for someone to go to this do with you. Would you take them?”
Still puzzled, Jean nodded. “I suppose so. Who did you have in mind? And what do you mean a dare?”
Barry glanced round at me. “John, do you fancy going to this party?”
“What?” I said, snapping out of my drunken reverie as Jean at the same time exclaimed “Barry, I told you á± “
Barry cut her short. “Dare time,” he exclaimed dramatically. “John, I bet you wouldn’t go to Jean’s party dressed as a girl!”
I sat up and looked at him incredulously through a beery haze and nodded sluggishly.
“You’re right, you win. I wouldn’t!” I said, while Jean nudged him hard in the ribs. “Don’t be so ridiculous!” she told him.
Silence resumed until Harry, having waited a moment or two said, “Still, if any of us could do it, John could.”
Barry smirked into the rear view mirror. “Yeah, I can just see John in pink panties!”
“And a cross-your-heart bra!” contributed Harry.
“With little embroidered flowers on it!”
“And a sweet little party dress.”
“Showing off her legs.in stockings and suspenders.”
I turned on both of them. “Are you saying I look like a girl?” I demanded angrily as Jean put a restraining hand on Barry’s arm.
“That’s enough,” she warned him, and turning to Harry shook her head silently. The look she gave him could have turned him to stone.
Silence tinged the atmosphere inside the car as I wrestled mentally with the uncomfortable images that had been drawn in my mind’s eye, and I realised I had the beginnings of an erection over the thoughts conjured up. I wriggled in my seat, trying to regain control of my renegade body.
The silence continued.
“Still,” Harry’s voice cautiously ventured after a few moments, “If any of us could get away with a dare like this, it would be you, John. I’m too tall and thin, and Barry’s too fat!”
“I’m not fat!” exploded Barry, as Jean laughed and squeezed his arm.
“What about beer for a month?” asked Harry.
I gaped at him. “What do you mean?”
Looking at Barry, Harry said “Barry and I will buy you beer for a month if you go with Jean to the party dressed as a girl!”
Jean turned around in her seat. “I certainly won’t be taking anyone to any party pretending to be a girl and looking like an over-made-up clown!”
“Er.” I tried to speak.
Barry interrupted with his two-penn’orth: “No, you’d be in charge of making him look the part!”
“Er.” I said.
“Yes,” said Harry. “Jean, you’d make sure he could pass as a girly at the party, wouldn’t you?”
“Er.”
“Wait a minute,” said Jean, “I haven’t agreed to any of this. These are my girl friends we’re talking about here. I’ve told you it’s a get-together for girls only. If I sneaked John in as you’re suggesting, and he was found out, nobody would talk to me ever again!”
I silently watched my friends’ discussion continue in disbelief. It was as if I wasn’t there with them.
Barry rubbed Jean’s exposed knee in a conciliatory manner with his free hand. “I think you might be exaggerating their reactions,” he told her smoothly. “And anyway, aren’t we your friends as well?” he asked.
Jean turned round to face me with her á«please help me’ face on; at last I was to be consulted: “You’re not thinking of taking them up on this, are you?” she asked.
“Er.”
During their exchange my mind had been toying with the thought. Initially their suggestion of my dressing up as a girl had made me feel uncomfortable, certainly in the groin area. I hadn’t thought my friends found me in any way effeminate. However, I felt I had thought of a way out of the situation. I looked at Jean, then at Harry and Barry.
“Six months,” I stated, fool that I am, raising the stakes to what I felt would be an unacceptable level.
“What?” My three friends chorused.
My head had cleared a little by now. “Six months,” I repeated. “If you want me to do this, I reckon it’s worth free beer for six months. And only if Jean will help me, and then only if she thinks I’ve got half a chance of getting away with it.”
My friends stared at each other, silently, before, unbelievably and to my intense horror, Harry and Barry both nodded agreement.
Barry looked at Jean. “We agree,” he said, “What about you, Jean? We’ll abide by your decision.”
Jean’s initially angry expression faded as she slowly looked me up and down. Then, with a half smile, “All right,” she said carefully, so that everyone understood her standpoint, “But only if I have the final say. I’m not going to upset my girl-friends if I don’t think it’ll work.”
We all shook hands on it, me somewhat limply, and I relapsed into a semi-daze, conscious only of having committed myself unthinkingly to an enterprise I knew I was bound to live to regret, until the others poured me out of the car outside my home.
Part 2
By Kim Johns
"Oh, hi John. How are you feeling?"
I grunted, my head still swimming a little, my mind clearing slightly. "Jean, I had a really strange dream last night," I began.
She laughed. "Oh, yes?"
"Yes. I dreamt you agreed to take me to a party dressed as a girl ..."
"Yes, but only if I thought you could get away with it."
Silence on my part. Then: "You mean it's true?"
"Well yes. You said you'd do it if Harry and Barry paid for your beer for six m..."
"Shit. Still, I'd never pass for a girl, would I?"
There was a silence from Jean this time.
"Jean?" I said. That silence had been just a little frightening, and had lasted just a little too long. I felt strange constrictions in my stomach, and a sudden urgent need to urinate.
Cautiously, Jean said "Actually, John, I think you might. I'd need to sort a few things out for you, but I think you just might be able to do it!"
"You mean I look like a girl?"
"No, John, that's not what I mean. But if you are going through with it, I think you have half a chance of getting away with it."
I thought about that. Finally, "Can you think of any way I can gracefully get out of this?" I asked her.
"Oh, yes," she told me immediately.
"How?"
"Well, you just buy Barry and Harry beer for the next six months."
I said a word that she pretended to be intensely shocked by.
"Of course," she continued, "If you've really decided not to do it ..."
I interrupted. "You've got the final say, though, haven't you? You can stop it?"
This, I thought, would be my fail-safe. Jean would soon see I could never be mistaken for a girl, and tell the boys all bets were off.
"Yes. I wouldn't let you or my girl-friends down."
"What have I got to do?" I sighed, bending to the inevitable.
"Well, I thought I ought to come round in the week and see what we can make of you. I'll bring some bits and pieces with me, and we'll try you out."
"OK." It was my turn to be cautious. "When did you have in mind?"
"How about Monday? Then if everything works and it looks good, we've still got a few days before the weekend to perfect everything?"
I can't say I liked the sound of that, and the ache in my stomach and genital area grew in proportion to my anxiety, but I agreed. What else could I do? If I refused point blank the guys would never let me live it down. And there was always the beer. There would always be the beer. The die was cast.
The doorbell rang on Monday night, and when I answered it Jean stood there with a smallish suitcase in one hand and a long green canvas dress carrier in the other. Damn. I'd hoped she would have forgotten, but she had a memory like an elephant. Still, hope springs eternal.
"Come to stay?" I asked, taking the case from her and leading the way upstairs.
She laughed. "Just some odd bits and pieces. Make-up, underwear and some dresses. Where's your mum?"
"She's out this evening. Won't be in 'til late." Subconsciously my brain had registered the word 'underwear.' What had I let myself in for?
"Oh, that's good. We won't be interrupted then."
I dumped the suitcase on my bed. "OK, then. What do you want me to do?"
Jean smiled. "It sounds a bit forward," she said, "But you need to strip off."
I sighed. "All right, let's get on with it."
I turned my back on her, and stripped down to my underpants. "How's that?"
"You're a bit hairy," she commented, rubbing a gentle finger over my arms and chest. "Not too badly, but you're going to need to shave all over. You don't see too many hairy girls. Still, I thought of that." She took a bottle from the case, and we went into the bathroom. Jean turned on the taps, and shook liquid into the hot water as it steamed from the taps. It immediately foamed up, releasing a pleasing, but intensely feminine, fragrance into the room.
"I want you to have a bit of a soak in the bath, and then shave your whole body," Jean told me. "Legs, arms, chest, and under your arms. And your face. Girls are nice and smooth all over, and that's what you're going to have to be. When you're done, and you've dried yourself, put these on and come back into the bedroom."
She handed me what appeared to be the smallest pair of panties I had ever seen, not that I had seen many, soft and white with a satin feel. Embarrassed, I quickly put them on the bathroom stool, feeling my penis quiver in anticipation of what I was about to do.
Jean left me to it, and I sank into the bath, relishing the scented water that seemed to soak into my skin, relaxing me, softening me. I leaned my head back, closing my eyes. I'd never realised a bath could feel so sensual before. The steam enveloped me and I drifted away ...
I opened my eyes suddenly, aware that the water was starting to cool, and grabbed my razor. Starting with my legs I began shaving. It was a time-consuming task, but I tackled it with patience, pausing every now and then to slide my hands over the newly hairless parts of my body and revel in the unaccustomed softness and smoothness. Oh my God, I thought, I'm beginning to feel like a girl!
Finally finished, I dried myself carefully and picked up the panties, sure they would never fit me. However, I was mistaken. Pulling the soft material up my legs and over my hips I realised how stretchy the fabric was, hugging my body intimately. They felt comfortable and snug and protecting. I enjoyed wearing them, and again felt the twitching of my manhood as it became excited at the sensual feel of the garment.
I returned to my bedroom, where I found Jean had emptied the contents of the case onto my bed. She turned as I entered, and looked me up and down appraisingly.
"You've done a good job," she remarked. "How do your panties feel?"
"All right," I said, blushing hotly as she glanced down at the bulge between my legs. She smiled.
"That's no good," she remarked, indicating my erection, "We'll have to get rid of that. Girls don't have penises. Well, not their own, anyway."
She reached for me, pulling my stiffened manhood free through a leg of the panties, and stroked it with her thumb before glancing at me with a wicked glint in her eyes. I shivered, and it wasn't with cold.
"It would be a shame to waste this," she murmured, looking me boldly in the eye. "Perhaps we should give it one last fling before you renounce masculinity forever!"
As my mind tried to compute what she meant by 'forever,' she pulled me forward by tugging gently on my erect member, then sat on my bed. She lifted her feet and swung them up onto the bedspread, then slid backwards towards the pillows. My knees touched the edge of the bed, and I moved forward and knelt in front of her as she continued softly pulling me. Slowly she lifted her skirt with her free hand, circling her waist with it and revealing a pair of lacy white panties. Moving her hand again she peeled the panties down to her knees, revealing the triangular-shaped growth of hair at the base of her stomach. Giving another gentle pull she opened her legs a little, and I felt a gigantic aching in my testicles and the enormous growth of my penis.
"Barry," I began, but her free hand now covered my mouth. She leaned up towards me, and kissed me on the lips, a warm, exciting, dangerous kiss, slipping her tongue into my mouth and playing with mine.
I compulsively moved forward and entered the warm, slippery dampness of her, filling her completely, feeling her clasping me inside her. Her arms folded around me, pulling me close, and our lips kissed and our tongues played, and I moved within her in a rhythm programmed by nature until, unable to restrain myself any longer I felt myself burst inside her, felt the urgent flowing of juices from me to her, and sank exhausted on top of her.
She nuzzled my ear as my penis slowly deflated, until I rolled from her and lay on my back on the bed, wondering what had just happened between us. I hoped in my heart it wasn't just sex, but her next words disillusioned me.
"That," she said, "Was between you and me. Barry will never know about it. Agreed?"
I nodded dumbly.
She smiled down at me. "Thanks. Now, when you feel able, we've got a bra fitting to do!"
I stood up and adjusted the panties, but Jean put a hand out to stop me.
"Let's see if we can make this right," she murmured, and walked behind me.
Placing one hand over my stomach she pulled the top of the panties away from my body, and slid the other hand down inside the panties until the tips of her fingers found my penis. Palm towards my body she moved her hand slightly downwards and then pressed gently, forcing my penis and testicles back between my legs. Holding her hand there she then adjusted the panties so that they were pulled tightly upwards, and slid her hand out.
"How does that feel?"
My manhood was held securely between my legs by the elastic pull of the feminine garment, and I felt surprisingly comfortable. Looking downwards, I saw the smooth roundness of my stomach and no masculine lumps pushing the panties out of shape.
Jean smiled. "That's a bit more girly," she said. "We don't want strange bits sticking out from your body suddenly, do we? In a room full of girlies, someone just might get suspicious!"
She picked up a white satin bra from the bed, a match for the panties, and turning it inside out and backwards showed me how to fasten it at the front of my chest before manoeuvring it around my body and putting my arms through the straps. Once on, she fiddled with the adjustable shoulder straps and stepped back a pace to look at me thoughtfully.
"You need boobs," she remarked. "I'll have to think about that. In the meantime, let me have a couple of pairs of your socks."
I fished in a drawer, puzzled, and handed the socks to her. She rolled each pair into a ball, and then put each ball into one of the bra cups. Again a bit of fiddling until she smiled. "What a well-endowed girl you are," she remarked. "You've got a bigger bosom than me!"
I moved my head in a circular motion and shrugged, easing the foreign feeling of straps across my shoulders and taut elastic round my torso. There was a buzz of excitement slowly building up inside me, a strange eagerness suddenly to know just what it would be like to be female, to wear those flimsy fripperies that, as a male, always excited me when I saw women wearing them, sending my pulse racing.
Jean gently pushed me in the chest, jerking me out of my reverie, and my knees folded against the side of the bed, forcing me to sit.
"I've brought tights with me," she said mischievously, "But you look a bit like a stockings and suspender girl to me. However, that can come later. In the meantime, I'm going to put these on you because I don't want you laddering them."
She showed me a pair of shiny black tights, and deftly inserted her hand into one leg before folding it up and easing it over my foot and up to my knee. She repeated the action with the other leg and made me stand up. She then teased the rest of the tights bit by bit up each thigh in turn until she reached my crotch. Again with that impish grin she smoothed the elastic material up into my groin sending erotic messages buzzing to my brain before finally pulling the garment round my waist. I don't think I had ever felt anything quite so sensual as the pull of the tights massaging my newly smooth legs as I experimentally walked around the bedroom, getting used to the feel of them.
Somewhere between my legs in its secure little nest I felt my penis twitching yet again. Jean noticed my quick downward glance and chuckled. "It's OK," she told me, continuing quite mistakenly: "There's nothing moving down there!"
"Now then," she continued briskly, picking up a small bag from where it had lain hidden amongst the female fripperies covering my bed, "Come and sit over here by the window."
She moved my bedside chair close to the light and I obediently sat.
"This may take a little time," Jean told me, putting an assortment of small tubes and brushes on my dressing table, "And you may not like the eye bits, but if you do what I tell you everything should work out fine."
She picked out a pair of tweezers. I eyed them suspiciously.
"I'm going to pluck your eyebrows," she explained.
"Hey, guess what," I told her. "No, you're not!"
Jean smiled. "It won't hurt. And I'm not going to do much, just shape them a little bit. Yours are a bit bushy, so if I go carefully they'll look OK whether you're dressed as a boy or a girl!"
"Hmm."
Taking my response as agreement she began to torture me, and I did my hurt baby routine, mainly because it hurt like hell and I was a big baby.
She finally put the metal instrument away with a rueful smile and reached for the small bag again.
"Sorry to stop," she murmured, "I could see you were enjoying that."
As she applied the various items of make-up to my face and, particularly, my eyes, she issued instructions, telling me to turn this way or that, to close my eyes, open my eyes, stare at the ceiling or to the left and right, and all the time I could feel light touches to my eyelids and cheeks, to my eyelashes and lips, catching sight of brushes and tubes and pencils with my peripheral vision. It seemed to take ages, but finally Jean looked down at me critically, and blinked in apparent surprise.
"Well," she said, "I actually don't believe this. You're very pretty!"
"Don't be daft," I told her, standing up and glancing in my small wall mirror, "Blokes aren't pretty..." I stopped short, staring in amazement at the girl who looked back at me. She was indeed pretty, with make-up that complemented her features in a minimalistic way, and the only jarring anomaly was her hair, which was short for a girl and still recovering from the effects of the bath.
"Bloody hell," I exclaimed.
Jean put her hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry to say this," she told me, "But more and more I'm beginning to think you might just win this bet of yours!"
"But my hair," I started to say, and she put a finger on my lips.
"I think I can do something with your hair, even though it is short, but just in case," and she leaned over to a small carrier bag beside the bed, "I've got this."
'This' was a wig which she shook fairly vigorously before placing it on my head and tugging it in various directions until apparently satisfied with the effect. "Now sit back down," she ordered, and began gently brushing the hairpiece.
Although the hair only came to my shoulders, I again experienced a feeling of sensuality as it swished against my bare skin while Jean styled it, brushing and combing until satisfied.
"Now look in the mirror," she said.
I could not believe that the gorgeous creature staring back at me was in fact me! If I had seen my face across a crowded room I would have wanted to approach me and try to chat me up! These confused thoughts sped across my mind as I touched the hair surrounding my face.
"Come on, beautiful," Jean urged me away from my reverie, "Dress and shoes and then we'll form an opinion!"
Jean had hung the dress carrier in my wardrobe. Unzipping it she looked thoughtfully at the items within before finally making a decision and easing one out.
The dress she showed me was black, with thin straps across the shoulders and a slightly scooped neck, and was hemmed with some sort of net material in a scalloped fashion. Jean unzipped it and held it in front of her. "Step in," she commanded.
I stepped in, and felt the light, smooth material kissing my skin as Jean lifted it up my body, pausing once to let me put my arms through the straps and then again as she eased it over my bust, being careful not to disarrange her boob job. Finally she stood behind me and zipped up the dress, and I felt it arrange itself around my figure, close but not uncomfortable, and feeling very, very sexy. My penis twitched again.
"I got the largest size shoes I could find," Jean said, producing a pair of black patent leather court shoes with (I discovered later) a two inch heel. "Try 'em on, they're sevens."
"My size," I muttered, slipping my stockinged feet into the shoes and taking a few steps around the room, "And they fit perfectly!"
"And you can walk in them straight away," marvelled Jean. "Have you done this before?"
She moved around me, straightening the dress here and there, lifting the skirt to check my panties were still in place properly and comfortably, and further minutely adjusting the bra to improve the shape of my upper body.
"There," she said, finally satisfied. "Have you got a full length mirror anywhere?"
The only one we had was fitted to the door of my mother's wardrobe, so we went into her bedroom for a final assessment.
I stood in front of the mirror amazed and not a little frightened. Gone was the reflection I was so used to seeing, the somewhat unkempt youth who tended to dress in old jeans and t-shirts, in fact gone was the John I knew so intimately, vanished without trace. In his place stood a pretty young lady (I hesitate to use the term beautiful when applying it to myself, but I was extremely taken with her!) with a trim figure and nice legs, dressed for a party and looking very attractive indeed. I felt a rush of sexual excitement, not only at the appearance of this creature in front of me but also from the combined feel of the clothing I was wearing, a feeling of sexy sensuality, and the knowledge that this gorgeous creature was me! My penis stiffened and I experienced an involuntary orgasm, feeling the hot semen rush into my tight panties. I groaned and put my hand out, leaning weakly against the mirror.
"John, are you all right?" asked Jean, concern spreading across her face as she put her arms around me to steady me.
"Sorry," I said thickly, and explained what had happened, somewhat shamefacedly. Jean hugged me. "Don't worry," she said, "I'm not surprised. These are lovely clothes to wear, and although I hate to admit it you look absolutely stunning in them. Wait here."
She vanished, and I heard the sound of a bathroom tap. When she returned she was holding a wet flannel and a towel.
"Lie back," she said, and I felt her gently lifting the skirt of my dress and pulling down my tights and panties. Carefully she cleaned me up, and dried me, before pulling the panties and tights back in place and smoothing down my dress. I sat up and hunched forward, still a little dizzy, leaning my elbows on my knees and with my head in my hands, feeling confused and worried as she returned to the bathroom.
Neither of us had heard the front door open and close, or the sound of feet on the stairs. The first thing I became aware of through my fugue was my mother's voice as she stood outside the bedroom door.
"Hello, Jean," she said in a surprised tone, "Where's John? And who's this!"
Startled, I rose to my feet, a blush starting on my face, but twisted my foot in the unfamiliar heeled shoes and lurched sideways.
My mother took two steps into the bedroom and caught my arm as I staggered, steadying me, as Jean also entered to lend a hand.
"Are you alright, dear?" asked my mother, concern written over her face. "Sit on the bed and I'll get you a drink of water." Motioning Jean to stay with me, she left the room.
I grabbed Jean's hand. "Oh God, what am I going to do now?" I whispered, terrified, feeling desperately that I wanted to urinate. For my mother to find me like this was the worst thing imaginable. My anticipation of the unknown was causing pain in my stomach, tautness in my groin. I felt pale and weak. What would her reaction be? It felt as if the end of the world was, finally, at hand!
Jean shook her head, baffled.
"I suppose we'll have to tell her the truth," I muttered, visions of I knew not what kind of response my mother would display when reacting to the news that her son was a drag queen!
"Let me try," Jean said as my mother returned and handed me a glass of water. I took it gratefully, muttering my thanks as I raised the glass to my lips, effectively covering my face.
"Where's John?" asked my mother again, turning to Jean.
The girl paused. "Harry and Barry set him a dare," she explained carefully, doing her best not to tell a downright lie. "I came over to help him sort it out."
Mum laughed. "What sort of a dare?"
"He has to go to a party with me."
Again my mother laughed, her brow furrowing in puzzlement. "I'm sure that would be no problem for him, Jean. You know how he enjoys parties. I'm surprised Barry is letting him take you, though."
"Well," said Jean slowly, "It's more a matter of me taking him." She paused again as my mother looked curiously at her, then at me. "It's a girls-only party," she blurted.
Mum looked even more puzzled. "So you and your friend both came over to help John go to a girls' get-together?" she said slowly. She glanced at me again, then back to Jean, then, startled, back to me, looking closely at my partially concealed features as sudden realisation dawned.
"John?" She said to me, moving the hand that held the glass away from my face.
I sighed and put the glass down, looking up at her, the long hair of the wig caressing my cheeks as I did so. "Mum," was all I could think of saying.
My mother took a step backwards, mixed emotions flickering over her face as she stared at me. "What have you done to yourself?" She said, both hands raised to her mouth.
"Mum," I repeated, trying to start an explanation.
"Just look at you! You...you look..."
She again glanced at Jean, then back at me, then back at Jean. "John..." she faltered, gazing incredulously at the sight I presented.
My cheeks blazed. I wanted to tear the wig from my head and wipe the make-up from my face, to show her I was still her son beneath the feminine facade.
"Stand up," she ordered faintly.
I carefully rose to my feet, remembering to treat the shoes with caution, and faced her, unconsciously smoothing the skirt of the dress down from my hips as I did so.
She put out a hand and gently felt the hair around my shoulders, then cupped my chin in her hands. "Just look at you," she said. I saw her eyes grow soft, misty.
"Mum, I can explain..." I began, but she placed a gentle finger against my lips.
"I often wondered what it would be like," she said, "If I'd had a daughter, how she would look now."
My mother was being totally confusing. She was looking at me with a strange light in her eyes, sentimentality mixed with curiosity and wonder.
I looked at Jean, then back at mum, puzzled by her reaction. The least I had expected was a grade 12 storm, certainly not this seemingly docile acceptance.
"Now I know," she continued. "John, you look beautiful." Surprisingly she put her arms around me and gave me a hug, and a kiss on the cheek. "Jean," she turned to the girl," Did you do this?"
Jean smiled nervously. "Well, yes," she said, "John wanted to know if I thought he could get away with it, so I said I'd help him dress up and see."
"And what do you think?"
"I think there wouldn't be many, if any, of the girls who would guess he wasn't one of them, unless he made a really big mistake."
Mum nodded her eyes bright with unshed tears. "I think you're right." She looked at me again, smiling. "My daughter!" She exclaimed. "Who would have thought it?"
"Mum," I intervened, shifting my body uncomfortably," I'm still your son. I'm only doing this as a dare!"
She laughed, suddenly her normal self again. "Yes, I know, but let me enjoy the occasion!" she said.
"So you're not mad at me?"
"John, why should I be? It's not as if you're a secret cross-dresser, is it? Or is there something you want to tell me? You look great for someone who's doing this for the first time!"
"Mum!" I protested, feebly.
"Come on, the two of you," Mum ignored me, "Let's sit down in the front room and have a drink. I certainly need one after this shock."
As I turned towards my bedroom she caught hold of my arm. "Where are you going?"
I stopped. "I'm going to change out of these things," I started to say.
"Please don't. If I'm to have a daughter, let me have her for as long as possible, John. Come and sit down as you are. It will please me, and it'll be practice for you."
With some reluctance I followed my mother and Jean into the front room, a little uncomfortably and incredibly embarrassed. My mother was taking my sudden transformation better than I would ever have imagined, and as we sat and drank and chatted about the party, and my new appearance, and life in general, the sneaking feeling crossed my mind that, perhaps, all my life she had wished I had been born a girl rather than a boy. The thought made me bite my lower lip a little as a tinge of jealousy and resentment spread over me. Could it be true? My mother secretly wishing for a girl, hating the fact that I was male? Surely not.
Changing out of my female attire and cleaning the make-up from my face as I prepared for bed, my brain ached with confusion. Jean had been impressed by my transformation, and I had to confess that even I had been somewhat startled by the female me; the fact that my somewhat unpredictable mother had also accepted my 'change' was strangely unsettling, and as I settled down to read before sleeping I wondered just what sort of outcome this odd wager was going to have on my life...
Part 3
By Kim Johns
"John, I've been doing some thinking," she began, hardly waiting for me to finish my greeting.
"Always got to be a first time," I told her.
"Don't start. This is serious. Have you realised that Barry and Harry are going to want some proof that you've been to this party with me?"
"Proof? Well, you'll tell them, won't you?" It wasn't something that had occurred to me; I tended to accept what my friends told me as a matter of trust. Why wouldn't they believe what Jean or I told them?
"Of course I will, but you know what they're like. And there's six months beer involved in this!"
I paused to reflect. She was perfectly right. Money, in the practical form of liquid refreshment, was involved in this, and quite a lot if they held to their end of the bargain. Of course they'd be asking for hard evidence. How on earth could we convince them that I had been to the party dressed as a girl if they were unlikely to accept Jean's or my say-so?
"Anyway," Jean continued, "I've had an idea, if you're up for it."
"Go on."
"I thought we should meet on Friday night with you in your outfit."
"What?" I spluttered, feeling embarrassment creeping up the back of my neck like a red tide. "Meet at the pub dressed like that? I don't think so!" I looked quickly around the office to see if anyone had noticed my raised voice and was peering inquisitively at me. No. Good.
"Calm down, John. Think about it. Last night, even your mother didn't recognise you at first, so there's no chance anyone else will think you're anything but what you appear to be. And of course we want the boys to see what you're going to look like when you do go on Saturday. It might be the only way to convince them that you intend to go through with it."
I thought about her suggestion. It made sense. The only problem I could see was, would I have the brass nerve to show up in public dressed as I had been the night before? I knew I had to face the test on the Saturday, but that would be at a party in a private house. Bad, but bearable (probably). To go to a pub? That would really be an ordeal, and I wasn't too sure I was up to it. However, I knew I had to grasp the nettle sometime...
"OK," I said slowly, "How do you suggest we do it?"
"Well, if you're game, I don't think we should make it easy for the boys." She adopted a fake French accent. "Listen, for I'll say this only once ..."
Ignoring her reference to 'the boys,' I clasped the receiver closer to my ear.
Jean suggested that I phone Barry and tell him that I couldn't make it on Friday, that something urgent and unexpected to do with family had cropped up and I had to be elsewhere. Once I had done that, I should let Jean know, and she would then also phone Barry a few moments later to say that an old girlfriend of hers had unexpectedly turned up for the weekend and she was wondering if it would be OK to bring her to our Friday evening session. She would even suggest that her 'friend' might hit it off with Harry or John, hopefully then prompting Barry to reveal that John wouldn't be able to turn up that evening. Jean would be suitably surprised and arrive at the pub with her 'girlfriend' in tow. The plan was to see how long it would take the two boys to realise who I was!
I was a little sceptical, feeling that I would be outed as soon as they set eyes on me -- after all, we had known each other since primary school - but as the whole point was to show them what I would look like on the Saturday, and that I was determined to go through with the Saturday night experiment, I couldn't really fault the arrangement. My only concern was that I would walk in the pub and have a crowd of strangers laughing and pointing their fingers at me, nudging each other to have a look at the 'perv in the frock.'
Jean pooh-poohed that thought. "You might be surprised," she suggested. "I don't think anyone will give you a second glance. Well, perhaps the men will! I personally thought you looked great as a girl last night, and so did your mum. Why, she even got a bit tearful when she saw you!"
"True," I agreed, not completely convinced, but as I say I trust my friends. If Jean thought I could do it, I'd do it! "OK, we'll give it a whirl and see what happens."
"Also," Jean said as the thought occurred, "I'll tell Barry we'll meet at the pub because I'm taking you out during the day. That way you can get changed at yours and we'll go from there, rather than Barry picking me up from home. It would be a bit difficult to explain to my family why you were dressing up!"
"You're the boss," I told her. "Who ever said women were devious?"
She laughed and hung up. I listened to the dialling tone for a moment or two, my confused thoughts elsewhere, before replacing the receiver.
Everything appeared to be running quite smoothly for our plans, and thoughts of Friday were far from my mind as my mother and I ate our evening meal, washed up and put away the dishes that night.
We settled down to an evening of television, each of us with our own preferred alcoholic beverage, but as the hours plodded by I became very aware that my mother seemed to have something else on her mind. Far from being engrossed in the programme being transmitted she kept glancing over at me where I sat in an armchair, opening her mouth as if to speak and then hesitating and returning her eyes to the flickering screen.
After a couple of hours of this plainly apparent fidgeting on her part I finally sat forward in my chair, looking at her.
"Mum, what's on your mind? You're no more interested in this sit-com than I am, and it's as clear as clear that you want to say something! What have I done wrong now?"
The last question wasn't necessary; I merely used it as a lead-in to assist my mother. Had I been at fault over anything in any way whatsoever she would have had no hesitation in apprising me of the fact.
She looked over at me, clearly embarrassed, and again paused before speaking.
"I was thinking," she finally said, "Of last night."
Drag night, I thought, mentally raising my eyes to the ceiling. Now what?
"Oh, yeah." I commented. I wasn't going to give her any encouragement.
A pause. Then: "I...er...thought you looked pretty good in that get up."
I sighed. "By 'get up' I suppose you mean the dress and everything?"
"Yes."
"Well, thanks, I guess. Do you think I can get away with being a girl for an evening?"
She gave me a strange look, and nodded. "Absolutely. You had me fooled until Jean let the cat out of the bag by mentioning you were going to an all-girl night."
"You wondered how I might have wangled an invitation?"
"I'm not silly, John. Unless you were going as a male stripper -- which I know for a fact is something you'd never do -- there had to be something more to it. Then I registered the 'dare' comment.""
"Why would I not be a male stripper?" I flexed my muscles reflectively. "Something you're trying to tell me?"
She laughed. "I'm not saying you couldn't be -- I'm just saying that, knowing you as I do, it's not something I can see you being involved in."
I grunted, mollified. Actually she was right. Never in a million years, even if I thought I had the physique, would I contemplate doing something like that! Whilst the thought of a crowd of girls screaming over my nearly-nude torso was extremely titillating, I was enough of a realist to know it would never happen in my lifetime.
There was a brief silence. My mother continued looking at me.
"Something else?" I asked.
She nodded. "Actually, yes. And I feel not only embarrassed but silly in saying it...but here goes, anyway."
But instead of here-going she again paused, and took a sip of her drink. I waited patiently.
"I was just wondering...whether you felt you might need a bit more practice before Friday..."
I heard the words but they didn't signify anything to me. "More practice?"
"Yes. I mean, you've only done it once, briefly, the dressing up I mean, and I know Friday is really a try-out, too...but don't you think you should try again -- perhaps a couple of times, before then..." she was looking at me oddly, almost appealing to me "...just to make sure you've got it completely right?"
The penny dropped then, and so did my jaw. I looked at her in wonder. "Mum, you want me to dress up again?"
She nodded again, silently, her eyes liquid in the harsh light from the television set.
"You want to see me as a girl again?" I didn't know whether it was anger or incredulity I felt. I was confused.
"I think I'd like to, yes," she admitted quietly.
I felt the corners of my mouth turn down. "I thought last night, when we were chatting with Jean and I was dressed like that, that you might have preferred to have had a girl instead of a boy for a child. Looks like I was right!" I couldn't disguise the bitterness in my voice. I felt a bit choked up. Had my feelings been right? Had my mother been regretting her boy-child for the last seventeen years?
Startled by my vehement reaction, she got up quickly and came over to me, kneeling in front of me and raising her hand gently to my cheek. I jerked my head back, feeling tears pricking the back of my eyes.
"I don't mean it like that, John," she said soothingly. "I love my boy...my man. You've turned out just as I had hoped, and managed it without a father figure in your life. I'm proud of you."
"Then why-?"
"However much I feel about you, no mother with only a male child, or children, will ever stop wondering how a daughter might have turned out had she had one. I won't deny I'm not envious of my friends with daughters, they've had the fun and the joy of seeing them grow, and of dressing them up to look pretty and nice, and some of them of seeing their daughters married, walking down the aisle like a princess all in white, looking radiant and happy. I have never had that, and never will, and will always wonder, but it doesn't mean I didn't want you as you are, or think the less of you."
"So what is it about this girl thing?" I wanted to know.
"John, last night, without intending to, you gave me the opportunity of seeing how the daughter I never had might have looked at this point in her life. I can't explain how I felt when I saw you looking like that. It was as if history had been re-written. I saw before me my beautiful teenage girl just as I had always envisaged her in my mind's eye, and it was you and Jean who gave me that chance!"
"OK," I said non-commitally. What was this 'beautiful teenage girl' comment? However, I wasn't stupid. I could see what she meant, could understand what she was telling me. My petulance dissipated as I stood up, bringing her with me, led her to the settee and sat her down, dropping easily beside her.
I gave her a hug. "You want to see your daughter again?" I said.
She hugged me back and nodded. "If you don't mind. I know that after Saturday she'll disappear again forever, and I just wanted the chance to spend some time with her. Do you think I'm a silly old woman?"
"Yes, but I still love you."
She slapped me, playfully.
I made a decision. "OK, Mum, you're probably right. Yesterday Jean helped me, and that's why you got to see me as Miss Perfect. I suppose I should try to get used to dressing up on my own, even putting the make-up on myself...but you could help me with that, if needs be, couldn't you?"
She nodded eagerly.
"Tomorrow, then," I told her. "Tomorrow when you get home Miss P will be here to greet you. I can't guarantee she'll look as good as last night, but hell, we girls have got to learn sometime how to look as great as we can with the little we've got!"
My mother kissed me on the cheek. "Thank you. I know it's something you don't really want to do, but I'm grateful to you. I love you, John."
"Hey!" I wiped my cheek. "I love you, too, but I prefer my stubble black, not lipstick red!"
Mindful of my commitment, when I got home the next day I freshened up in the shower, and showed a razor to the light stubble on my face. Then with a towel wrapped around my waist I sat on my bed and dried my hair.
Finished, I ran experimental fingers over my body. I was still smooth from when I had shaved on Monday. I finished towelling off, and then stood naked in the middle of my bedroom, working out where to start.
First, I rummaged through the small suitcase Jean had left, which contained not only make-up but lots of lacy underwear. Perplexed by what exactly was in there I upended the contents of the case onto the bed, put it in a corner, and examined the residue.
As I sorted out the pile of clothing into panties, bras, and whatever else, I felt my penis swelling uncontrollably. There was absolutely no doubt whatever that the flimsy, lightweight clothes girls wore under their dresses had the power to turn a man on, even when they weren't wearing them! This man, anyway!
I picked out a peach-coloured bra and matching panties that were of a material so cobwebby that I imagined my erect member poking a hole in them as I tried to manoeuvre them over it. The material, however, was much stronger than it looked, and extremely elastic, so that as my excitement ebbed I was able to push my boy bits downwards and backwards between my legs and feel them safe and secure within the constraining fabric.
After a bit of mental spatial exercise I worked out that the best way to wear the bra was to put it on with the inside out and upside down, and fasten it at the front before swishing it round my chest and putting my arms through the straps. This worked a treat, and remembering Jean's idea I put a couple of pairs of my rolled up socks into the bra cups.
I stood up straight and wiggled my body. The panties felt immediately natural and comfortable to wear, the bra felt a bit odd about my torso and the lumps at the front strange at first, but looking in the mirror I felt reasonably satisfied that I was beginning to take on a girly shape again. There was something peculiarly sexual about being a male in female underclothing, and the old trouser snake started its twitching game again. I was amused at how such thin material kept the old boy under control.
Sitting in front of the mirror I experimented with the bag of make-up. First, I knew, Jean had rubbed some skin-coloured cream all over my face. I found the pot of foundation and scooped some out with my finger. Then I dabbed it all over my face before smoothing out the dabs with the tips of my fingers. When I had finished I saw, to my satisfaction, that any hint of five-o-clock shadow appeared to have been eradicated, and my face had a healthy glow.
The eye bits were trickier, and I used a lot of tissue 'rubbing out' and starting again, but finally I was satisfied with what I saw. My eyelids had understated colour and I had managed to outline my eyes with a black pencil, avoiding what I had heard Jean call the 'panda look.' More difficult had been the mascara, and I had narrowly avoided putting my eyes out with the vicious looking applicator on more than one occasion, but again, at the conclusion, I was fairly happy with my now long dark lashes.
Again, what appeared to be a fairly simple task was more complicated than it looked. Lipstick had this strange way of smearing itself in places you didn't want it to go, and I used up quite a bit of toilet paper before all the smudging disappeared and I had what I felt to be eminently kissable lips.
I avoided the blusher after two failed attempts. Whatever I did with it, I looked like a clown. It came off and stayed off.
Now came another tricky bit. Jean had put my tights on me last time, and I only vaguely remembered the operation. I knew it had something to do with working from the toes up, so I scrunched up one leg of a pair of black shiny tights and, sitting on the bed, eased them on.
I quickly worked out that you couldn't get one leg completely on and then start on the other. No, it wasn't as easy as socks. You had to work both legs up bit by bit, up to the knee with one leg, then the other, then up to the thigh with one leg, then the other, until with a bit of bum-wriggling and hip-swaying you managed to work the top of the tights around the waist. All this while trying to avoid poking a finger through the darn things! The only plus I found with all this was the incredibly sexy feeling of the tights once they were on my legs, smooth, lightweight, stretchy and supportive. I almost had an orgasm walking around in them, just like last time!
Finally I looked at the dresses Jean had brought. I wasn't going to wear the little black number again, that was reserved for Friday and Saturday. Of the two remaining, one was a flimsy summer dress with thin straps and the other what I later learned was a shift dress with a rounded neck and no sleeves. It was also 'fitted,' which meant when you wore it, it clung to the shape of your body.
After trying them both on, I decided on the shift dress, thinking it made me look much more girly, and after all that's what my mother wanted. The only problem with it was the zip, which ran down the back and caused me a great deal of contortion and swearing before I figured out the best way to do it.
The shoes were easy, they just slipped on, and I reached for the wig that Jean had left, and a hair brush.
Hell's bells! Having put the thing on I found that when I tried to brush it, it slipped out of place all the time. Because I'm pretty quick, it only took three or four cuss-words and two or three times stretching down to pick it up off the floor to make me realise that if I brushed it pretty carefully before I put it on, I wouldn't need to do much work on it after it was in place.
I looked at myself in the full length mirror.
Call me narcissistic if you like, but there was that babe again! She didn't look quite as...polished as I had seen her last time, but in essence she was everything I had aimed for. I fancied her something rotten, but I suppose that's a bit like saying you fancy your sister. A very odd feeling, and the boy bits were straining big time down there trying to show their appreciation as well. If only, I thought to myself, I could meet a real girl half as nice looking, one who might just fancy me...
I just hoped my mother would appreciate all the trouble I'd gone to.
Looking at my watch, I wondered where the time had gone. No wonder it took women so long to get ready. My mother would be home shortly.
I decided to get a meal ready for us, and ran downstairs to the kitchen. Well, perhaps ran is the wrong word. The shift dress didn't give my legs much freedom to operate properly, and I was soon reminded of the slight heel on the shoes. I negotiated the stairs very cautiously indeed.
As I began organising things in the kitchen I realised that food is pretty messy, and the last thing I wanted to do was muck up Jean's dress. I found Mum's pinafore, a sort of apron with a bib that had frilly bits all around it. I tied it up at the back in a bow, and got on with things.
It took me a while to get used to the normal cooking operations whilst wearing female apparel, of feeling the light touch of the dress as it brushed the nylon of my tights, making a strangely sexy swishing sound as it did so, and having hair flopping over my face whenever I leaned forward to cut or chop, and a mental image flashed before me. I visualised my mother shaking the hair back from her face as she prepared food or wrote a letter or did some sewing. Now I knew why, and I also remembered the girls at school wearing their hair brushed back and fastened in a pony tail! Vanity has its drawbacks! As I reached and stretched I felt the elasticity of the bra straps marking my every movement around my chest and shoulders.
My mother came home just as everything was bubbling away nicely, steam issuing from saucepans in a very homely way, and found me at the sink washing up a few pots and pans.
I sensed her standing in the doorway, watching, and glanced round.
Her face was a picture. She was staring wonderingly at me, her mouth slightly open. I grinned.
"John?"
"Who else?" I asked.
She entered the kitchen and sat down at the table, shaking her head. "I don't believe this," she said. "If I didn't know it was you, I'd think a real live girl was in my kitchen."
I went over to a cupboard and brought out a bottle and glass, and poured her a little of her favourite tipple.
"For tonight," I told her, handing her the glass, "I am a real live girl, and that real live girl is your only daughter. And your daughter has prepared a meal which is almost ready, so get changed while I lay the table so we can eat it while it's hot!"
I shooed her away and got on with things, and by the time she returned the food was on the table. We sat down to eat.
It was indeed an interesting evening. My mother spoke to me, treated me, as I had observed her conversing and reacting with any other female with whom she was spending time, and I was achingly aware that her attitude towards me was totally different to that which she employed when I was in my male persona. I, too, was aware of myself responding to her differently, and realised with a sudden shock of comprehension that I felt almost completely female in her presence.
Our conversation never halted, and we discussed a variety of subjects, of things and people, without so much as a pause. Our normal evening chatter would be very intermittent, interrupting television advertising time between programmes and not really saying anything, just reassuring each other that we were still there. I'm not saying my mother and I rarely spoke, because we often had intense discussions, but in comparison to our normal evening discourse tonight we sparkled. I enjoyed it intensely.
Finally, as we prepared for bed, Mum took me to one side and gave me a hug and a long and loving kiss on the cheek.
"What's that for?" I asked, embarrassed.
"Just for being you," she told me. "You've always been a lovely son, and now I know that, had you been born a girl, you would have grown up no differently. Thank you for tonight. You've made me very, very happy."
I hugged her, embarrassed by the brightness of unshed tears in her eyes, and as I got changed for bed, and underwent the interminable task of removing my make-up, I pondered over the evening.
Had we actually got on better tonight? I mean, we always 'got on,' but tonight seemed different to me. We had sparkled off each other, gelled, integrated in a way I had never experienced as a male.
Something at the back of my mind was asking me whether I was starting to enjoy my girl persona, perhaps even beginning to prefer it, but I quickly tossed that idea into oblivion. Whilst I had undoubtedly thoroughly enjoyed the evening, this was being done to win a bet; this was for the beer, wasn't it? There were no other subtle underlying reasons for my doing this, surely?
I had almost convinced myself that this night would be sufficient; but the next evening I found myself hurrying home from work with no other thought in my head than to be my Mother's daughter once more.
Showering and changing felt perfectly natural -- it was as if my body and mind had finally accepted that sometimes I wore masculine clothing, and sometimes feminine. Of course, my boy bits reacted as usual to the first touch of the lightweight, delicate feel of female underwear, but eventually became controllable. And, whilst I wore just a plain bra and panties and the summer dress that night, it was as magical, both for me and my mother, as the first.
At the end of that Thursday night I lay in bed with my arms behind my head and stared at the ceiling in puzzlement. I had actually enjoyed being a girl -- twice! Was I going through some strange sort of transformation? Was it possible that my physical and mental states were being slowly feminized because of a silly bet over alcohol?
Oh well, tomorrow night was the big test. At least Jean would be helping me get dressed and made up, so I would look as good as I ever could under the circumstances. How long, I wondered, would it take my pals to discover who I really was? Not long, I guessed, ever the eternal pessimist.
On the other hand, perhaps my strangely surreal acceptance of this alternative female role had subtly altered me, made me not only different in my mental attitude but also, to an extent, in my physical appearance. Maybe I was, in fact, changing into a girl.
I shook my head as sleep drifted over me. I didn't believe in magic, or the supernatural, or things that went bump in the night...
Part 4
By Kim Johns
In my bedroom she placed the bag on the bed and rummaged in it for a second or two before throwing me a pair of flimsy pink panties, telling me to strip off and put them on. “And,” she told me with a curious smile on her lips, “Don’t expect another performance like last time. That was strictly a one-off. I’m Barry’s girl!”
I pulled a face, and then smiled back at her, feeling a little better. “There goes my only incentive,” I wailed in mock anguish (or was there a touch of regret there, too?), but picked up the underwear anyway.
She laughed at me. “Think of the beer,” she suggested.
Turning my back on her I stripped off my own clothes and slipped into the panties, tucking my boy bits away as best I could. As I felt the soft, smooth material, light but controlling around my nether regions, another shiver shook my body, this time one of sensual and sexual anticipation. When I turned to face Jean she looked me up and down slowly and critically.
“Right,” she commented, softly drawing her fingertips along the line of my jaw, “All you need to shave is your face, everywhere else is still as smooth as a baby’s bum from last time. Make sure,” she added as I headed for the bathroom, “That you have a shave close as you can get it. Perhaps even shave twice, once upwards against the grain of your beard and once downwards with it. You need to be as smooth as … well, as smooth as a girl’s face!”
I stared at her. “How do you know so much about shaving?”
“Come on, John, be real! I’ve got a father and a brother as you well know!”
With Jean’s laughter ringing in my ears I did my best, even managing to avoid nicking my skin with the edge of the razor (a hazard, especially the morning after a night on the tiles!) and afterwards as she once more stroked my cheeks she gave me a sisterly kiss of approval.
“Lovely. With a bit of slap covering this, you’ll do fine.”
“Slap?”
“Make-up, silly.”
“Oh.” I forbore to tell her of my previous two evenings’ experimentation. She might expect me to get on with it myself, and I knew I needed her expert guidance tonight, and most emphatically tomorrow night of all nights.
“Right, time for getting ready. The plan is to knock ‘em dead! To make you look feminine and sexy, you need to feel feminine and sexy. If a girl wants to feel really feminine and sexy, she wears sexy clothes from the skin outwards! Do the panties make you feel sexy?”
“They feel all right,” I conceded slowly, not wanting to let her know that I was already beginning to be aware of what she meant, and certainly not that I was thoroughly enjoying myself. I don’t think I fooled her, though, for she gave me a knowing look and laughed yet again. With anyone else I would have felt the laugh was directed at me, but knowing the girl as I did I felt confident that she was only sharing the humour of the situation with me.
“Just ‘all right?’” she asked, looking at me quizzically, her head to one side.
“Well,” I admitted reluctantly, “I guess they do have a bit of a raunchy feel to them.” I couldn’t help grinning at her. “Hell,” I admitted, “You’re right. They do feel sexy!”
I felt uneasy about the thought of telling Jean how comfortable I had started to feel wearing these clothes, or of talking about my feelings last night. The last thing I wanted from Jean was amused dismissal, although I had a strange feeling that would be the last thing she would do to me.
She had laid the contents of her bag tidily on top of my bed, and now selected from the various piles of clothing displayed there a suspender belt that was an identical pink to the panties I was wearing. She put it around my waist and I felt her warm fingers securing the clasp in the small of my back. The straps dangled against the tops of my legs, brushing them lightly.
“Stockings tonight,” she said. “As I say, it’s all about feeling sexy.”
"Oh God!" I thought, feeling my boy bits swelling at the thought, a dangerous excitement coursing through my veins, "Just what have I let myself in for?"
As she gently eased the suspender straps through the legs of the panties, causing me no end of embarrassment and further enlargement of my male member, I said, “So are you wearing stockings tonight?”
She glanced up at me with a wicked gleam in her eyes, a strand of hair falling across her forehead. “That’s for me to know,” she said defensively, “And maybe for Barry to find out!”
“That’s a great answer for when you’re talking to a bloke,” I told her. “What happened to ‘all girls together’?”
She paused, a pair of stockings in her hand that were as black and wispy as a Victorian London fog. “Oh yes,” she said, “I forgot you’re my girlfriend down for the week-end.” She giggled, and blushed slightly. “Of course I’m wearing stockings. Barry gets really turned on when I do!”
She pushed me into a sitting position on the bed, unrolling the stockings up my legs, and began fastening the suspenders to the bands at the top of my thighs. The feel of the delicate material over the unaccustomed smoothness of my lower limbs was amazing. I was beginning to understand what she meant by ‘feeling sexy!’
Poking once more into the pile of clothing beside me, Jean became the practical organiser again. “We need to know who you are, don’t we? Let’s talk about it.”
I looked at her in bewilderment. “What do you mean, ‘who I am’?”
She sighed at my stupidity. “I’m not going meet up with the guys and introduce you as John, am I? It might give the game away a bit, don’t you think?”
“Oh, yeah.” I hadn’t thought about it. Of course, I needed a girl’s name!
Jean looked at me, head on one side. “Well? What name do you fancy?”
My mind went blank, or to be more accurate stayed blank. I shrugged. “I don’t know. What do you think I look like?”
She laughed. “I won’t tell you what I think you look like. You mean, who do I think you look like?”
I nodded.
“Hmm. Well, as a John, I suppose you ought to be a Jean, but unfortunately that’s taken tonight!”
I wrinkled my forehead in concentration. Nope, still a blank.
“We’ve got to call you something. Surely there’s a girl’s name you like? What about an old girl-friend’s name?”
My brain had suddenly kick-started. “I know,” I told her. “When I was ill a couple of years ago and stuck in bed, I used to write a lot of stories. I had a pen-name then. I called myself Kim Johns. Kim ‘cause I liked it and it could be a boy or a girl’s name, and Johns because my name’s John. What do you reckon?”
She looked me up and down slowly. “Yes,” she finally said, slowly, “That’d suit you nicely. And Kim will be short for Kimberley, because that’s a proper girl’s name. Good thinking, John…er, Kim! Now, what’s the background story?”
That didn’t take long. It transpired that I was Kimberley Johns, an old school-friend of Jean’s whose family had moved away before she knew Barry. We had kept in touch by letter and phone, and eventually my family had decided to come down to see some old friends, including the girl’s parents, and I had taken the opportunity to join them, getting in touch with Jean to arrange a meeting.
“That’ll do,” said the girl, finally finding a pink bra that matched the panties and suspender belt. “We don’t want to have something long and involved worked out or they’ll sus it out at our first mistake.”
My face fell, realisation washing over me yet again. I was a boy, wasn’t I? No one on God’s earth would surely mistake me for a girl, whatever I was wearing. My anxiety deepened. “I reckon they’ll sus it as soon as we walk in the pub,” I moaned.
“Oh, be quiet.” Jean fastened the bra around me, adjusted the shoulder straps and popped what appeared to be a plastic chicken breast in each cup.
“What’s that?” I looked down curiously at the sudden development of breasts on my torso.
“Girly secrets,” she told me, winking. “The less endowed of us sometimes have to resort to artificial means to look as nature obviously intended us to look, but somehow fell down on the job! These,” she continued, “Look natural on you without suggesting you’re over-stacked in the boob stakes.”
Surprisingly, the inserts soon felt quite natural, nestling comfortably against my chest and gradually warming to skin temperature. I quickly forgot they were there, apart from the occasional jostling as I moved my body. It had never really occurred to me that girls’ breasts actually moved, until I recalled various sports days at school and my friends and me staring in wonder at the developing girls as they competed in various energetic activities.
Moving me to a chair near the window ‘for the natural light,’ Jean spent a long time over my make-up, doing all sorts of things to my face, cheeks and lips with various brushes and pencils and tubes, and concentrating on a particularly involved torture session around my eyes, until I began to get bored, but she finally stepped back to admire her handiwork.
“Once I’ve sorted your hair out, you’ll look great,” was her only comment, as she placed both hands on my shoulders to prevent me looking in the mirror.
She produced the wig, and began gently brushing it, twisting it to and fro in her hands until she was satisfied that she had straightened out all the tangles. Then she laid it on the bed and showed me a small piece of nylon.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a wig-cap,” she explained, although the term meant nothing to me.
Inclining my head forward on her instructions, I felt her pull the thing over my hair, which it flattened tight to my head.
“What’s that supposed to do?”
“It keeps your own hair secure and out the way, and forms a non-slip base for the wig to go on.”
“Non-slip?” Again, the thought hadn’t occurred to me. “You mean the wig might come off half-way through the evening?”
Jean chuckled. “Not by the time I’ve finished with it,” she told me. “I’ll make it so secure you’ll think it’s your own hair!”
She fiddled about with my head, and then placed the wig on me. I was conscious of the hair brushing my bare shoulders and the back of my neck. It felt incredibly sexy, and caused more blood to pump into my constrained boy bits.
“Go on,” she encouraged me, “shake your head about, really hard.”
I did as she requested, feeling the hair flying about my face as I did so. The wig stayed firmly in place, and Jean started to gently brush it into shape.
She spent even more time on my hair before finally allowing me to look at the finished product in the mirror. There was that girl again! My mother’s erstwhile daughter! Where the hell had she been hiding all these years? Was I being narcissistic in finding her so attractive? How can you fancy yourself?
With Jean’s help I stepped into the familiar black dress again, feeling strangely excited as the soft fabric embraced me once more, slipping over my hairless body like a second skin. Thank goodness for the flimsy strength of modern panties, I mused, as my male member struggled to express its approval. I moved my body experimentally, marvelling at how good I felt as the soft material brushed exotically against my stockinged legs. Jean smiled strangely as I slipped my feet into the slightly heeled shoes.
“You’re beginning to enjoy this, aren’t you?” She asked.
Embarrassed, I nodded, feeling a slight flush creeping up the back of my neck. I hated to admit it, but being a girl over the last few days had really got to me. It was beginning to feel ‘right,’ natural. Was I really changing, or had this other me been hidden inside since I was born? Was there something I was being told here?
“It does feel good,” I admitted. “I can understand why girls take a lot of time getting themselves ready to go out. I’ve never felt quite as sensual getting ready to go out as a boy!”
“Right!” No-nonsense Jean was fumbling in another small bag. “Just one more minor thing,” she announced, and grabbing both my hands slapped them palm down on top of the dressing table.
I looked down, mystified, as she made tutting noises with her tongue. “How long have you been biting your nails?” she demanded.
“Er…only when I’m hungry,” I admitted somewhat shamefacedly. One of my mother’s pet nagging sessions centred round my inability to stop nibbling at my fingernails. I had times when I managed to stop the habit for a while, but it only took a little bit of stress to find my fingers straying to my mouth again for a food fest.
“Well, at the moment they look pretty rough. No girl would be seen dead with them!”
I opened my mouth to protest, but she interrupted me. “Don’t worry, the miracle worker strikes again!”
She flourished a long, flat stick-like object and seized one of my hands,
sawing at my nails with gusto. “Fortunately,” she told me, “They’re just long enough to smooth into some semblance of respectability. Once we’ve done this and put a couple of coats of polish on them you’ll just about pass muster!”
“Polish?” Again I was baffled. The female world was continuing to present me with new surprises all the time, although now I came to think about it I recalled my mother’s occasional nail-painting sessions, and the odd smell that accompanied her ministrations.
“Nail polish, silly.” Jean confirmed, and started on my other hand. “You can’t go out without some colour on your nails.”
“Wait a minute.” I objected, pulling my hand back, a frightening thought occurring to me. “Does this stuff come off all right? I don’t want to waltz into work on Monday with bright red nails!”
She smiled silkily. “Would I do that to you?”
I nodded my head towards the stunning girl whose image was reflected in the small mirror. “You’ve done that to me!”
Jean released my hand and produced a small red bottle. Unscrewing the top, I saw her withdraw a small brush coated with the red liquid.
“I’ve only done what we agreed,” she reminded me, stroking the brush gently on my fingernails and leaving a glossy red sheen. Finishing one hand she made me spread my fingers wide and keep my hand away from absolutely everything while the polish dried, and started on the other.
I waggled my fingers the way I had seen my mother do, air-drying them, while Jean circled me critically, tugging gently here and there at my dress, smoothing it around the bust and hips. Finally she stopped in front of me, grinned and said the magic words.
“I think you’ll do.”
She took me by the hand and led me into my mother’s bedroom, prodding me reluctantly in front of the full-length mirror on the wardrobe door. I had stared fixedly at the floor en-route, hesitant to be confronted by the obvious transvestite. Slowly I raised my eyes to stare at my image in the glass.
“Shit,” I said inelegantly.
Once more my female alter ego faced me, a beautiful teenaged girl dressed to go out on the town. However hard I stared I could sense no hint of masculinity in that glorious figure. I gazed in wonder, confused at the apparent ease with which I could change sex. I have said it before, and will no doubt do so again, but I was in love with that girl, who was my other self.
“Well?” Queried Jean.
I was speechless, and as Jean watched me staring incredulously at the mirror I saw her reflection smiling at me in pride.
“Did I do a good job, or did I do a good job?” she asked.
The lump in my throat obstructed clear speech. “You did a good job,” I croaked.
Her arm slipped gently round my shoulders. “So are we ready to meet the boys?” There was no urgency in her tone, just a gentle, casual question.
I swallowed nervously, calculating all the excuses available to me to get out of this. I had allowed Jean to take me this far, in the security of my own home, but now I was contemplating going further afield, out into the hard, cruel and unforgiving real world, where discovery would surely lead not only to total embarrassment but extreme humiliation as well. Could I handle it?
Without further comment, and still extremely casually, Jean handed me a small black patent leather handbag and a short, dark woollen coat, a little like a bolero with sleeves.
“There’s make-up in the bag, and a brush, and a purse for you to put some money in,” She told me, reading my expression accurately, and placing a firm but gentle hand on my arm. “But don’t worry; I’ll be with you every step of the way! Ready?”
Far from it, I thought, shrugging into the coat and bracing myself, but I nodded, taking a deep breath. It was do or die.
“Let’s do it!”
Walking out of the house and down my road dressed as I was proved to be the worst hurdle of all; as each slow moment passed I anticipated confrontation by one of our neighbours, instant exposure and mockery.
Every step was mental torture, and my whole body seemed unusually sensitive to outside tactile experience. I was acutely conscious of the feminine underwear settled silkily around my smooth skin; the light touch of the hem of my dress as it brushed my nyloned legs as I walked; the almost silent swish as my stockinged thighs made contact sounding like thunderclaps to my alert ears.
Strangely (thankfully) the road was deserted apart from us, and having safely negotiated a couple of streets without a problem, I felt the tension easing slightly in my mind and body.
In fact, our journey to the pub, by bus and train, was uneventful, although all the time I was frighteningly aware of my appearance, and waited with dread for fellow travellers or passers-by to suddenly unmask my deception with loud jeers and stabbing fingers.
It seems, however, that Jean’s estimation of my appearance was correct, and as our trip developed I found myself settling into my new role, becoming at ease with the feeling of femininity that the wearing of female apparel engendered. I began to feel more comfortable with the girl I had become, and the stiffness and caution began to evaporate. Even my erection had disappeared, my body obviously deciding that as I wasn’t available for myself, it might as well go with the flow.
I soon got used to the slight heel on the shoes, and Jean’s whispered advice had me sitting prettily in quick time, sweeping the rear of my skirt flat with the palm of my hand as I lowered myself to a seat to prevent creasing, and remembering to keep my knees clamped firmly together at all times.
Finally we reached our destination, and stood outside the pub in the dusk of early evening, listening to the music emanating from behind its closed doors and watching the bustling, chattering shapes partially obscured behind its brightly-lit windows.
Jean turned to me, gazing at my face carefully before gently adjusting my dress once more for me. I clutched my handbag rather more tightly than necessary as she asked: “Are you ready to go in?”
I nodded slowly, lying through my teeth, conscious of the fast beating of my heart and the feeling of an urgent need to urinate. However, before I had the opportunity to turn and run, Jean took my hand and pushed open the door, entering the noisy melee. I trailed cautiously behind her, being pulled slowly and inexorably into the loud and bustling hostelry, taking slow, deep breaths to calm my once more trembling limbs.
People standing grouped by or sitting near the door glanced up incuriously as we trooped in, pausing in their conversation, and my heart continued to thump violently at their casual, disinterested appraisal, only to settle slightly when they looked away, unconcerned, to continue their discourse with one another. My self-consciousness dropped a level, but had by no means disappeared.
As Jean stopped and looked around the smoke-filled, dimly-lit bar, trying to find where the boys were, the surrounding buzz of a million conversations assailed my ears, dazing me with its intensity. I had visited pubs on occasions too numerous to mention, but never before had I felt as sensitive to the sights and sounds as I did right now.
Jean nudged me. I looked past her and saw Harry and Barry sitting at a small table in the far corner of the pub. Of course, I thought bitterly, the furthest table from the door, just to make me wade through as many strangers as possible!
Barry half raised himself out of his chair to wave, and Jean waved back, then ploughed determinedly through the crowd without a backward glance. ‘Don’t forget me!’ my mind wailed as I followed her, keeping close and avoiding eye contact with anyone, focussing on her back as we forged deeper into the throng.
Vaguely as I twisted and turned, corkscrewing across the crowded room, I was aware of low comments in passing: “Well, hello!” or “Hi, babe!” or “Looking good, chick. S’later?”
All these I ignored, as did Jean, although I have to admit that they rather helped to bolster my confidence, even though I felt sure the remarks were aimed at Jean rather than me. At least no one had said ‘look at the guy in the dress!’ We finally reached the boys’ table.
Barry kissed Jean on the cheek, but I could feel his eyes and those of Harry giving me the once over, assessing me, appraising me; I started to understand what girls meant when they talked about men undressing them with their eyes. While waiting for the boys’ instant identification of me I felt cheapened by their openness. Was this the way I acted when looking at girls? The thought actually appalled me.
The denouncement never came, and the imagined spotlight in which I had felt I was standing slowly dimmed and went out.
Jean turned to me. “This is Kimberley,” she announced. “Kim, this is Barry, my boy-friend, and the one sitting down is Harry.”
Barry grinned at me and winked, and I smiled. The movement of my lips felt stiff and awkward, false, but he didn’t appear to notice.
Harry smiled up at me, and his eyes twinkled, and I realised he was turning on the charm as I had seen him do so often in the past when he saw a girl he fancied. Fancied! My mind numbed at that thought. Surely he had guessed who I was? The thought of him actually fancying me in this get-up was…amusing, I suddenly decided, smiling back at him quite naturally as Barry offered me a chair.
Jean shook her head before I could reply. “Why don’t you get some drinks while we pop to the Ladies,” she suggested.
“Sure. White wine for you.” He turned in my direction, and I saw again the appraising gleam in his eyes as he raised an enquiring eyebrow and looked me up and down once more.
“Thanks. The same, please.” I would rather have had a pint, in fact a couple would have been better, but felt that might be a bit inappropriate. My voice sounded low and husky (at least to me), but as with Harry Barry didn’t appear to have penetrated my identity.
I followed Jean to the Ladies Room and leaned against the door in relief as she checked out the cubicles. The palms of my hands felt clammy, and I could sense beads of perspiration on my brow.
“We’re on our own,” she announced, and grinned at me. “Well?”
I blew out a long, slow breath, slowly rubbing my palms together. “Don’t know. Do you think they’ve sussed it but aren’t saying anything?”
The girl took my bag from me, opened it and removed the lipstick. She handed it to me. “Freshen up,” she ordered, and I slipped the top off and turned to the mirror, gently and carefully applying colour to my lips, trying to remember how Jean had done it. She watched me, nodding approvingly.
“No,” she continued the conversation. “I was watching them both very carefully. I think I’d have noticed if they had realised it was you! Anyway, you know what they’re like. They would have thought nothing of announcing you as a guy very loudly to the whole pub, and watching your total embarrassment!”
“When are we going to let them know?” I wanted to get this charade over with as quickly as I could.
Again Jean’s wickedly impish grin spread over her face and eyes. “Let’s not be too hasty,” she suggested. “Why don’t we see how long we can get away with it?”
My heart sank a little. I had thought that, once the guys knew it was me hidden beneath these layers of female frippery I would be more confident. I was now being asked to continue the deception, putting myself in a position where the testing — and the tension — would continue. Then I lightened up, sensing the humour of the situation. Of course, it would be fun to see just how long it took both my mates, both self-confessed Lotharios, to realise that I was the third of our Musketeers!
I grinned back at Jean, a sudden confidence asserting itself. “Sisters?” I said, raising the palm of my hand to her.
“Sisters,” she beamed back, slapping my hand with hers, and turned towards the door.
“Er…Jean?” I hesitated.
“John — sorry, Kim?”
I was embarrassed. “I actually need to use the loo,” I told her.
She looked puzzled. “Go on then. I’ll wait.”
I hovered at a cubicle door, still looking at her, wanting to speak but suddenly too shy to do so.
“What is it?” Jean asked, and then a dawning light crossed her face. “You don’t know what to do?”
I nodded, and finally found my tongue. “It’s easy for blokes,” I said, “It’s just a question of unzipping, aiming and doing it!”
She grinned again. “I’m sure you would have worked it out for yourself,” she told me. “Listen, get in there, and sit! You’ll have to pull your dress up to your waist, out of the way, and slip your panties down to your ankles. Nothing to it! It would have been more difficult if you were wearing tights, you’d have had to pull them down as well! Then just do what comes naturally.”
I locked myself in the cubicle and followed directions, and she was right. I would easily have worked out what needed to be done. I realised that, despite my earlier assurance, I was still intensely nervous about everything, and not a little frightened as to how I was going to survive this evening.
I communicated my fears to Jean when I emerged from the cubicle, and she put an arm round my shoulder. “Look,” she said, “If you want to tell the guys straight away that you’re John, then that’s OK with me. Once that hurdle’s out of the way, and they’ve accepted it, your nerves should settle a bit.”
“Yes.” I thought about it, and her calm and reassuring attitude bolstered my concerns and indecision. “No! You’re right! We’ll go with the flow, see how long it does take them to work out who I really am!”
Jean rubbed my back soothingly. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
She hugged me, gave me a light peck on the cheek, and we returned to the fray.
The evening passed quickly and easily, and the longer my deception remained uncovered, the more I relaxed into my new persona. I was puzzled by my friends’ apparent inability to work out my true identity, however. We had all known each other for years, and were more like brothers than pals. I knew they had had a couple of drinks before Jean and I had shown up, but surely that wasn’t enough to blind them to what I thought was painfully obvious?
We had a few more drinks, to the point where I was brave enough to suggest buying a round, and I went to the bar with Jean to get the order. The young guy behind the bar brazenly flirted with me, making subtle innuendos before actually asking me out for a date! He appeared disappointed when I declined, but the short incident made me feel much better about my female appearance, and shored up my confidence greatly.
At some point during the evening I found I was sitting next to Harry, and he was monopolising me in conversation whilst Barry and Jean chatted in low tones on the opposite side of the table, and I suddenly realised he was chatting me up! In some mental confusion I found myself flirting with him, and during a pause in the chatter observed that, whilst not actually in contact with my body, his arm was draped along the back of my chair. I caught Jean’s eye and she grinned and winked at me in a definitely non-girlish way.
Barry finally pushed his empty glass away and cleared his throat. “I’ve got an idea,” he announced. “There’s a club just along the road. Why don’t we see if we can get in for some late night bopping?”
He looked at Jean, who looked at me. Harry also turned to me. “What about it, Kim? Are you up for it?”
Jean gave an imperceptible nod, and I turned to Harry and Barry. “If Jean’s OK, I am,” I announced.
“Great!”
We all stood up, and I was treated to the oddity of Harry holding my coat open for me. I slipped it on with quiet thanks, and as we all left the pub became very aware of his arm possessively around my shoulders. Part of me wanted to shake him off, to let him know finally that he’d been taken for a ride, but another side of me felt flattered by his obvious attention. Besides, I suddenly realised that I was feeling very strange about this whole extremely surreal situation. Somehow I wanted to continue being female for as long as possible. It felt good to be fancied, and I felt good in the clothes that were now as natural for me to wear as my own. I felt a tension in my groin, a stiffening of my penis, but the panties Jean had given me, while light and flimsy, had an elasticity that kept me firmly in place, preventing me from unconscious betrayal.
Apart from a few moments wait in the queue we had no trouble in getting admission into the night club from the heavy, dark-suited bouncers at the doors, and soon found a table and drinks.
The music billowed about us from a multitude of speakers placed around the walls, and the multi-coloured disco lights flashed on and off in a random sequence, bathing our faces in an ever-changing tapestry of colour. The boosted bass level created a low, insistent throbbing that permeated my consciousness, duplicating its sound by causing an underlying beat through the tables, chairs and even the glasses from which we were drinking.
Before long Harry, who had been watching the crowded dance floor, became restless, tapping his long fingers on the table-top.
“Do you want to dance?” He finally asked me.
Shit! My mind blocked. I was a pretty useless dancer as a bloke. I had no idea how girls danced, even though I had spent countless evenings in countless discos enjoying watching their gyrations.
Jean obviously read my mind. “Kim and I are going to dance,” she said. “We need to talk.”
I saw Barry and Harry look at each other, and could almost read their minds.
Girls! They were thinking derisively.
Barry grinned. “Going to dance round your handbags?” he asked, obviously thinking it the funniest witticism of the century.
Noticing Jean had left her bag on her chair I did likewise and followed her onto the crowded dance floor. As we stood facing each other amongst the whirling throng, swaying gently to the music, I hissed “What the hell do I do now?”
“I knew you’d be worried,” Jean told me, a small grin on her lips. “That’s why I wanted us to come out here alone. Just do what I do, and then when you dance with Harry you can just do the same thing.”
As she began to move in time to the music I mirrored her movements, allowing my body to relax so that the dance became part of the rhythm of my mind and soul. I felt the skirt of my dress swishing against my nylons in a sexy, subtle way, and became aware of the sensual pull of the stockings against my legs as they were tautened and relaxed from the security of the suspender belt. The stiffness of my manhood was safe from prying eyes, secure beneath my panties, and I closed my eyes, feeling the taut band of my bra around my chest, and the thrust of my false bosoms against the front of my dress as I moved. The music infiltrated my very being and as I swayed to the insinuating rhythm my mind was a million miles away. Gone was the dance floor and its athletic population, gone was the booming music, vanished save for a faint beat mega miles behind my eyes, gone was Jean, my female mentor. I had no need for her now, for I was female, I had been changed, transfigured…
I must have been lulled into a trance by the hypnotic lighting and the steady insistent throbbing beat of the music, for as I let the rhythm soak into me, moving my body with the beat, I was Kim, body and soul. I don’t know what happened to John, he didn’t figure in my life at all at this strange moment, all I was aware of was that I was all girl, attractive and available. My movements were suddenly fluid and natural, my hands moving lightly over my body as the music moved me. My mind remained turned inwards, soaking up the oddly sexual experience…
“Careful,” I suddenly heard Jean whisper, her lips close to my ear, and felt her hand on my arm. “You’re looking and acting incredibly sexy now. Don’t you realise half the guys in this place are watching you?”
Earlier the news that I was under scrutiny would have terrified me. Now I felt totally laid-back and in charge. I half-opened my eyes and smiled at her worried and concerned expression.
“I feel incredibly sexy,” I told her quietly, still giving in to the music, letting it wash over me as my whole body relaxed. I was Kimberley, young, female and beautiful, suddenly aware of my terrible power over men, playing tease with the mind of every male in the place!
Jean moved closer again and tightened her grip. “If you keep this up,” she hissed in my ear, “I’m going to have to try and stop a mass rape on you!”
She gently pulled my arm, and as I came down from my euphoric cloud she led me, slightly dazed, from the dance floor and back to the table.
Both Harry and Barry were staring at me open-mouthed, and I felt strangely gratified at their undisguised attention as I sat down, modestly pulling the hem of my dress over my knees as I did so.
Jean swatted Barry gently with the back of her hand. “Close your mouth, lover,” she told him, “There’s a train coming!”
There is no doubt that the evening was becoming a huge success. The boys seemed no closer to realising who I was than before, and I danced with both Harry and Barry, chatting abstractly (although to be honest I encouraged them to do most of the talking) and becoming increasingly more confident in myself. The incident on the dance floor had somehow altered my perceptions, and I was beginning to feel completely female. John had vanished altogether (who was John?). I thought of myself only as Kim, Jean’s girl-friend.
We were sitting at the table again when the slow music started, and Harry took my hand and pulled me to my feet. I rose obediently. Barry and Jean followed suit, and we squeezed onto the dance floor.
Harry pulled me close to him, and I felt his hands clasped behind my back, relaxed and nestling at the base of my spine just above my buttocks. My body instinctively stiffened with the shock of such an unexpected intimacy. Whilst I had been having great fun as a girl, I hadn’t been quite prepared for close-up, in your face dancing. We were both blokes, for goodness’ sake!
Kim quickly came to my rescue. Pushing John back into the dim recesses of my brain she made my body relax, once more go with the flow. Even so, I realised I didn’t have a clue what to do with my own hands, and glanced wildly around.
Jean and Barry were entwined, she with her arms around his neck and kissing him. That would never do, John told me, re-emerging from the deep realms of my mind to which he had been banished. I spotted another couple, and this time the girl had one arm behind her fellow’s back and the other resting on his shoulder. Her head was resting on his other shoulder, facing away from him.
That’ll do, I thought, and adopted the same position, feeling strangely comfortable and comforted by Harry’s close proximity, and somehow aware of his masculine aroma, the dry, musky smell of his aftershave, something I’d never noticed before as a bloke.
Harry pulled me even closer to him, and we swayed to the music, the crowded dance-floor only allowing us the luxury of moving in a tight circle as we danced.
I was aware that his hands had slipped down to lightly cup my buttocks, and our stomachs were flat against each other. I felt a slight stiffening against my leg, and gasped silently at the imminent discovery, only to realise that it was Harry who was being aroused! In a moment of impulse I clasped him closer to me, allowing my legs to part slightly as I pressed my hips into his groin.
Again I felt the strange but wonderful sensation of my female clothing brushing my body as we moved, felt the freedom the dress gave me and the beautifully sexy sensation of the nylon as it clasped and teased my legs. How good it must be to be a girl all the time, to feel this way and to know how much of an effect you are having on the guy you’re with. My head was enveloped in dreamy clouds of infatuation as I nestled my head against Harry’s chest.
I felt his breath tickling my ear as he whispered, “I never asked, Kim. Do you have a boy-friend?”
I shook my head. “Not at the moment,” I breathed truthfully.
He hugged me, if it were possible, even closer to him.
“You know I like you lots, don’t you?”
I pressed gently against his erect penis. “Oh yes,” I told him.
I felt his lower body move away from me slightly. “Sorry,” he said, and there was an unaccustomed shyness in his voice. I heard myself laughing lightly.
“Don’t be sorry,” I said, moving into him again.
I felt his lips brush my cheek, and then became conscious of him leaning his head towards me. Looking up I saw his eyes, intense, staring into mine, and his lips slightly open as his head lowered. Without thinking I turned my face up to his and he kissed me lightly on the lips. Heaven help me, I returned that kiss, and with a passion I never realised I possessed.
My mind whirled. What on earth had possessed me? John was a small voice echoing in my brain from a gigantic distance somewhere on the other side of the universe. It was Kim who had taken over, usurping my mind and body, and I was completely at her mercy at this moment in time, body and soul.
“Let’s go outside,” Harry suggested. “It’s a bit too hot and crowded in here.”
“Outside?”
“They’ve got a small area outside with a bit of a garden and a patio.”
As he took my hand and led me towards a large pair of glazed double doors that led outside I saw Jean looking at me with an unspoken question in her eyes. I shrugged, and followed Harry.
The outside area was quiet, the music only just filtering through, and I noticed one or two other couples had chosen to leave the main room. They were all, without exception, glued to each other, silent statues in the moonlight.
Finding a quiet corner Harry put his arms round me and pulled me to him once more, and kissed me on the lips, his tongue probing. Every fibre of my being was telling me to jerk away from him, to leave this dangerous situation and go back inside, find Jean and run, but somehow I found myself powerless to do so. I wanted Harry to kiss me, for God’s sake, and I found myself kissing him back, holding him tightly to me as if to never let him go. As we clung together I was aware of his hand slipping to my bosom, closing gently around one breast and squeezing slightly. Of course, I couldn’t feel anything, but let out a soft moan anyway. Was it for encouragement? I don’t know. I didn’t pull his hand away.
Meanwhile his other hand was stroking my leg over the flimsy material of my dress. As we nuzzled and kissed I felt him pause suddenly as he found the clips of my suspenders, and then he was slowly pulling the skirt of my dress up, easily and steadily, with no fuss, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be doing.
I was caught up with his kissing, ensnared by a strange demand to know his passion, yet another part of my mind (John again?) was alert to discovery. Harry found and stroked my bare legs where my stocking tops were secured by the suspender clips, then moved his hand upwards again to the silky material of my panties. I reached gently down then, moving his hand and letting my dress slip back in place. My own erection must have matched Harry’s by the feel of it, but thankfully I was still securely bound in place or discovery would have been instantaneous.
We continued kissing, and our tongues were playing intense tonsil tennis, but I was instinctively aware of Harry’s disappointment.
What devils took hold of me that night I don’t know, for I whispered a “not yet” in his ear and moved my hand downwards and gently rubbed it against the gigantic bulge in his trousers. I heard his low gasp.
Fearfully, yet continuing, still being controlled by Kimberley, the girl I had become, I pulled down the zipper of his trousers and slipped my hand into the opening. He was not difficult to find, and I eased his stiffened member out, holding my fist completely around it.
He sagged back against the wall, eyes closed and head back as I gently moved my thumb and index finger up and down his erect shaft, and small groans emanated from his throat.
Again the evil imp took over, and I bent my knees, balancing a little precariously on my heels as my head levelled with him. I closed my eyes and licked his penis, cupping his testicles in one hand. My tongue travelled to the soft flesh beneath his glans, and I heard more moans from deep within his throat.
Finally, and with no compunction, hesitation or disgust, I took his penis in my mouth, gently slipping my lips around his engorged shaft and playing him with my tongue.
He shuddered and grasped each side of my head with his hands, forcing my mouth further along his enlarged member, and I felt his body stiffen suddenly. I was immediately aware of hot liquid gushing into my mouth and down my throat, and reflex action caused me to gulp quickly to prevent drowning!
I jerked my head back, returning abruptly to the reality of the situation, and his penis slipped from me. A quick glance showed me his eyes were still closed. My stomach revolted, and I turned my head away and as quietly as possible sent a stream of hot bile and God knows what else onto the ground.
I felt beads of sweat on my brow, and a sense of bewilderment, disgust and self-loathing. What on earth did I think I was playing at? How could I possibly have acted like this with another guy?
My mind slipped backwards into the middle distance where it hovered in a turmoil of disbelief over the sequence of events of the last five minutes. I felt Kim popping to the fore, peeping smugly through my eyes, satisfied at the results her actions had created in Harry.
He still leaned against the wall, eyes closed, breathing deeply. I fumbled in his pockets and, finding a handkerchief, dried his deflating penis off before slipping it back inside his trousers and zipping it safely away.
I wiped my own mouth with a clean portion of the handkerchief, and dabbed my forehead before placing it back in his pocket and standing up in front of him.
He looked at me through half-open eyes. “That was fucking terrific,” he said, and impulsively I put my arms around his neck and kissed him. What the hell was the matter with me? One moment I was male, appalled at the situation in which I found myself, the next minute I was all female, wanting him to love me!
He clasped me to him, and I cursed my maleness at that moment. I suddenly wanted him to hold me and know me, not as a man but as a woman, to feel him inside me, big and warm. Mentally I cursed Jean for her help in putting me in this irresolvable situation, then realised that it was a totally unfair thought. All she had done was what I had asked her to do. There was only one person really to blame, and that was me!
“Will I see you again?” Harry asked earnestly, and my thoughts vanished as I returned to the here and now.
“I’m sure you will,” I told him mischievously, wishing I was truly female, and that we could have the opportunity of becoming a couple.
“But you’re going back home with your family …”
“Tomorrow,” I said.
“Will you give me your phone number?”
“We’re moving at the end of the week,” I lied constructively. I didn’t know how else to handle this situation. “I’ll phone you.”
“You don’t know my number.” Shit, I’d forgotten that Kimberley didn’t — although of course, John did!
“Give it to me,” I said suggestively, and kissed him again. He held me tightly, as if never wanting to let me go. I certainly didn’t want him to.
“You’re not just saying that?” He asked doubtfully. “I will see you again?”
I touched his lips with my fingers. “I promise,” I told him truthfully. “We will meet before very long!”
“In that case,” and he struggled, working both hands together, before handing me a ring I knew he always wore on his left hand. “Take this,” he urged. “Take it, and I’ll know you mean what you say.”
I placed the ring on one of my fingers, and hugged him again, feeling once more his body’s urgent response to me. “Do you doubt me?” I asked.
He looked me closely in the eyes and opened his mouth to speak, then paused, looking at me carefully again, a curious expression flitting over his face. A couple of puzzle lines appeared between his eyebrows.
Shit, I thought, finally rumbled. “What’s wrong?” I asked, trembling inwardly.
“Nothing,” he said, a puzzled expression on his face, “I thought for a moment…” He shook his head. “Déjá vu,” he muttered.
I forced a laugh. “You’re strange,” I said.
“That’s what I’ve always thought,” came Barry’s voice from behind us.
We turned, and saw him and Jean laughing at us. “We thought we’d give you a bit of time to… get acquainted,” Barry smirked.
I ran a hand through my hair, glancing at Jean and encountering an extremely quizzical and enquiring look. My God! How long had they been standing there, watching us? “Later,” I mouthed at her, and she nodded.
We left the club, and Harry and I sat in the back seat of Barry’s car, his arm around me but saying nothing. I automatically leaned my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes, the strange events of the evening buzzing in my brain.
At Jean’s request Barry dropped us off close to her home, as she had told him my parents and hers would be chattering about old times, and it wouldn’t be fair for the boys to come in and interrupt. When they had gone, we got a cab to my place, where my mother had said Jean could stay for the night, and she helped me clean off the make-up and put the clothes and wig away.
“You’ve got a lot to tell me, I think,” said the girl, giving me another of her curious but knowing looks.
I blushed uncontrollably. “I have, and I will, but in the morning,” I told her.
She nodded, smiling at me as she had earlier that evening, a knowing smile as if she were aware of a secret I had not yet become privy to.
“Oh!” I suddenly put my hand to my mouth, a very girlish gesture I immediately realised.
“What?”
“We didn’t tell the guys who I really was!”
Jean gave me the odd look again. “I got the feeling in the car that you weren’t too keen to do that,” she remarked.
I blushed again under the intensity of her knowing gaze. “No, you’re right,” I admitted. “I didn’t.”
Jean laid a hand on my arm. “Girl’s talk in the morning?” She said.
“Girl’s talk in the morning,” I promised.
Impulsively she put her arms around me and held me close. Her perfume was light but heady, and I closed my eyes. I felt her soft kiss on my forehead before she moved away.
“Goodnight, Kim,” she said, and I opened my eyes to see her heading for the door. She glanced back briefly, and there was something in her own eyes as she looked at me that made me feel a little uncomfortable. Then she smiled at me, a warm, loving smile, and my discomfort vanished.
I settled down that night with my head whirling. Things were happening that I didn’t quite understand, and happening with an incomprehensible speed. I couldn’t explain the deep reasons behind my actions this evening, why
I had acted in the strange way I had. A sense of repulsion and disgust swept over me and I buried my face in the pillows, feeling tears flowing from my eyes. Kim and John. John and Kim. Two people in one body, first one to the fore, then the other, in a bewildering series of changes. Who, in truth, was I?
Perhaps, after Saturday night, my confusion would be resolved, and I would be myself again.
Or would I?
Shit! I thought frantically. She was obviously the astute one in the pack, the only one to guess my secret!
Part 5
By Kim Johns
Early morning sunlight gradually washed over my staring eyes and I realised that sleep now, for me, was not to be. I threw aside the bedcovers, slipped on an old t-shirt and jeans, and as silently as I could made my way downstairs.
I needn’t have bothered in my endeavours not to wake anybody, as I found my mother and Jean in the kitchen engrossed in a deep conversation over mugs of steaming tea. Their sudden silence as I entered confirmed that the subject of conversation had been me.
I grunted my usual ‘good morning,’ made myself a mug of the welcome brew and replenished theirs, and sat down at the kitchen table.
“Jean tells me your deception went down very well,” commented my mother.
I nodded, glancing at the girl. “Yeah. For two guys who have known me since primary school, they were pretty blind,” I told her.
She laughed. “What did they say when you told them?”
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. “We…er…didn’t actually tell them,” I confessed.
My mother looked from me to Jean and back again. “You mean they still think they spent the evening with two girls?”
“Well, unless they twigged who I was and didn’t say anything…yes,” I told her.
She laughed again.
Jean leaned forward, her face and voice confident. “There is no way they cottoned on to who you were, John,” she said. “I would have known straight away. They didn’t have the faintest idea!”
“So does that mean you have won your bet?” my mother asked.
I shook my head. “Last night was a trial run. The bet is for tonight, remember? It’s a party for girls only!”
Mum looked at Jean. “What do you think?” she said.
Jean smiled. “It’ll be more difficult, as you know, because girls tend to be more perceptive than boys, but I think John stands a great chance of passing himself off as Kim without too much trouble. No-one,” she added, “Will be expecting a boy to gatecrash the party dressed as a girl!”
I was treated to a look of pride from my mother. “My daughter!” she exclaimed, making me cringe with embarrassment, then she laughed yet again, and I realised she had only said it to embarrass me. Or had she? My paranoia was getting too much of a grip on me.
“Come on, Mum,” I said, “Don’t get carried away. After tonight you can forget Kim. I want to get on with my life!” Even to my ears those words didn’t carry quite the conviction I had intended, and I was treated to a couple of very strange glances from the two females.
“Right, I’ve got things to do,” my mother said, getting to her feet after a momentarily awkward silence. “I’m sure you and Jean have got some last minute planning to do, so I’ll leave you to it. John,” she raised her eyebrows at me, “I will expect a fully detailed account of both last night and tonight at some stage tomorrow!”
I nodded dutifully. Little did she realise that there was absolutely no way she would be getting a complete account of last night’s outrageous culmination of events! I was sure that was what had been contributing to my sleepless night.
I also hadn’t intended to tell Jean the whole story about last evening’s occurrences, especially in the light of my unnatural and strange passion for Harry and my odd and rather disgusting behaviour with him subsequently, but somehow it just came out quite naturally during our conversation, with no pressure on her part.
Jean seemed intrigued by my account of my feelings, laying a sympathetic hand on my arm as I recounted the tale, and was intensely interested if not a little nauseated when I relayed the sordid story of Harry’s and my indulgence in the garden.
“Have you ever..?” I started to ask, and she put her hand over my mouth.
“I’m not going to tell you that!” she exclaimed, blushing.
I smiled. “So all sisters together still only goes so far, then?”
So she relented and told me some extremely surprising things, and we giggled together about men in general, until I realised I was acting just like any female friend would probably act.
“Am I turning girly?” I asked her suddenly, feeling a little uncomfortable about just how comfortable I was with this female bonding.
“I suppose the evening must have had some effect on you,” she told me. “You’ve seen what a bit of life’s like from a girl’s point of view now, and I expect some of the experience has rubbed off on you. Probably just as well, as the big experiment is tonight!”
With a shock I remembered that I had to go through the whole experience again, this time under the critical eyes of a group of women! What hope did I have of fooling them that I was one of their own? My worries over the problem of my interchanging sexuality faded as the enormity of this evening’s undertaking suddenly blossomed into stark reality.
Jean laughed. “People tend to see what they expect to see,” she told me. “No-one tonight will be looking for boys in drag. If you act as you did last night, I think you’ll get away with it again. And if any of the girls do sus you out, they’ll be more intrigued by the reasons for the dare, and impressed that you actually did what you promised to do, than wanting to ‘out’ you as an imposter! In fact, anyone who did discover you would think they were pretty smart, and keep quiet to see if anyone else was as clever as them!”
“Is that what you’d do?”
Jean nodded. “Oh, yes,” she smiled.
“But wait a minute,” I said as the thought occurred to me, “When it was first suggested I go to this party as a girl, you were worried about your mates finding out!”
“Well, I certainly didn’t want to turn up with an obvious ‘man in drag,’ now did I? There’s nothing more off-putting than seeing a man with too much make-up plastered over his face and an outrageous dress sense trying to be a woman! Of course, when I saw how convincing you were as a girl, it made me realise you just might get away with it!”
“Still only ‘just might’?”
Her lips flexed, and the wicked eyes crinkled at the corners. “Oh, I don’t think anyone will mistake you for anything but what you are!”
The remark initially satisfied me, and I ceased my probing, but later, reviewing her comment, I puzzled over what she really meant by it for a long, long time.
As the party wasn’t until the evening, Jean coerced me into a shopping trip with her, and it wasn’t until we became immersed in the flimsy items in an underwear shop that I realised why.
“I thought we could buy you your own underwear,” she told me, looking through a rack of barely there panties and bras.
I hastily looked around to see if anyone was listening. I was of course still dressed in my usual male Saturday attire, which is to say a pair of well-worn jeans and a baggy t-shirt. I wasn’t ready for odd stares from the women customers, especially any young women customers!
“Keep your voice down, Jean,” I begged her, “I don’t want any funny looks from anyone in here!”
Her mouth twitched in amusement, but she did lower her voice.
“Anyway,” I continued in low tones, “What would I do with my own stuff? It’s not as if I’ll be wearing any of it again after tonight!”
“Maybe, maybe not,” she said, holding out her hand palm downwards and inclining it left and right.
“What!”
“No, no,” she amended hastily, “What I meant to say is, it’s one thing wearing my old bits and pieces as a test run, and even last night didn’t really matter — it was only the boys, after all. But tonight,” she continued, moving to another rack of flimsy undergarments, “I think you ought to be comfortable with what you have on, and that really means having clothes that are the right size for you.”
“But how will you know what’s the right size?” I objected.
“I’m a woman. We have an eye for these things.”
“Oh.”
“What do you think of these?” she asked, pushing a very cobwebby pair of see-through panties into my hand.
“Come on, Jean, I’m hardly likely to wear anything like this, am I?” I told her, proffering them back to her.
“I’m joking with you, John,” she turned away to another part of the shop, and I followed obediently.
“This is more what I had in mind,” she told me, standing in front of a display of what looked like fancy corsets.
“What are they?”
“These are basques,” she told me. “But these sorts are quite good for what you want. See, they’re like an all-in-one bra and suspender belt, and have little hooks and eyes at the front to do it up, but these also have lacing at the back.”
“What’s so good about that?” I asked, fingering the lacy garment cautiously. It looked pretty sexy to me, and I couldn’t help picturing Jean clad in one. Half-clad in one. Pay attention, John!
“Once it’s on, it’s laced up at the back, and that pulls your waist in, and keeps it in. It’ll give you a more girly figure. A crowd of girls is more likely to notice your odd shape than Harry or Barry ever would. I think one of these with a pair of matching panties would be just the job.”
She riffled through the rack and picked a couple out, holding them against me. I blushed and stepped back, turning away, again looking in all directions to see if anyone was watching Jean’s antics.
She chuckled. “All right. Which one do you like best?”
I looked at them both critically. One was mainly a deep blue in colour, the other a satiny maroon. Both were covered in lacy bits and pieces. I found I liked them both, but was drawn to the maroon job. I inclined my head and flicked my eyes at it.
My dumb show amused Jean even more. “Which one did you say you liked?” she said again, raising her voice slightly.
I glared at her, reached out and touched the maroon basque. “This one,” I hissed in a low voice.
“This one?” Jean raised it to my shoulder level while looking at it appraisingly. “Mmm. Yes, I think you’re right. And I think this size will be OK.” She found a matching pair of panties and handed both garments to me.
I put my hands behind me and stepped away from her. “You surely don’t expect me to carry them, do you?” I said aghast.
“No,” she said calmly, “But I do expect you to wear them!”
Back at home, Jean insisted I have another bath, and while it was running she poured more scented bubble bath into the water, where it foamed incredibly, forming a mass of bubbles over the surface of the water, and exuded a pleasant, definitely feminine aroma into the room.
On her instruction I stripped to my underpants, and she gave me a visual once over, stroking my body here and there to assess whether there had been any noticeable hair growth.
“No, you’re fine,” she announced. “All you need is another good double shave to get that face nice and smooth, and we’ll be ready to rock and roll!”
As I tested the heat of the water, Jean stripped down to her bra and panties. I looked at her appreciatively.
“What are you doing?”
“Don’t forget,” she said, “I’m going to this party, too. I need to be clean. I’m having first bath!”
My mouth dropped.
“It’s all right,” she continued, “I’ll be quick, and you can take your time. While you’re in the bath, I’ll be getting ready, so that I can help you afterwards!”
She stood looking at me in silence. Suddenly the penny dropped, and I mumbled something and backed out of the bathroom. As I closed the door I could see she was smiling to herself as her hands unclipped her bra.
Later, when I finally emerged from the bath, drying myself with a huge towel, I had to admit Jean looked great. She was wearing a cream silk dress with almost non-existent shoulder straps, flesh coloured stockings (or tights — she didn’t enlighten me this time) and cream low-heeled court shoes. Her hair was scooped up on her head and secured in place by a silver clip, and she wore two small diamond ear studs. I gaped and she smiled in appreciation.
“Will this do?”
“You look fabulous!”
“I’m sure not,” she said, “But thanks for the compliment!”
The time had come. I slipped on the maroon panties, pushing my boy bits back out of sight, and tugged them up waistwards. They didn’t actually reach my waist, sitting just above my hips, but they felt secure and very comfortable.
Jean wrapped the basque around me and fastened it with the fiddly little black hooks and eyes. If felt fairly tight, pulling the slight bulge of my blossoming beer belly flat. She then eased it up my body slightly, teasing me with the soft, satiny elasticity of it. Finally I put my arms through the straps, and she smoothed it into place.
Standing behind me she instructed me to take a deep breath and hold it. When I did so, I felt her pulling from behind, and my waist and belly were constricted even more, to a point where I thought I would never breathe again.
Jean obviously fastened the garment at the rear, for she then told me to breathe out. I did so, and my fears faded. Whilst I was conscious of being ‘held in place,’ I found I could breathe normally with no discomfort at all.
“We’ll pop the stockings on first,” Jean said, “And attach them to the suspenders. Then we’ll put the breast forms in and I’ll adjust your bra straps.”
It was the strangest thing to feel once more the slight pull of the stockings against the suspenders, and the firm settling of the shoulder straps. Strange, but again very sexy. The little fellow hidden in my panties was struggling again.
After carefully making up my face again, Jean helped me on with the same dress I had worn the night before. This time it felt normal to be wearing a dress, and I twirled a little in it.
“I think you like being a girl,” she told me, as I pirouetted.
I blushed big time and stopped the fashion parade.
“I can understand girls feeling sexy wearing clothes like these,” I told her, thinking I ought to explain myself. “They just have a great feel to them. Guys don’t have anything that compares to the feel of this!”
The girl sat me down and spent some time arranging the wig again, assuring me that she was fixing it in place so securely that there would be no possibility of it slipping on my head or being pulled off. “Unless you get into a cat-fight, that is,” she said slyly.
“A cat-fight?” Light dawned and I laughed. “I shouldn’t think there’ll be much chance of that!”
“No,” Jean agreed, “Not tonight. There’ll be no men to fight over!”
I nearly said, “But there’ll be me,” then shut my mouth firmly. No one, I decided firmly, would know I wasn’t what I appeared to be tonight!
Jean finally sprayed a light but very nicely perfumed scent over me and told me to shut my eyes. Used to doing what I was told now, I obediently did so.
“Ouch!”
A sharp pricking pain pierced the lobe of my right ear, and I jerked my head back and my eyes open. “What on earth…”
Jean was holding a small needle in one hand, and a ball of cotton wool in the other. There was an antiseptic smell close to my nostrils, and suddenly she was swabbing my ear gently. I felt her press something against the lobe of my ear.
“What was all that about?”
“You’ll see,” she told me, “But I’m sorry, I’ve got to do it again with the other ear.”
“That’s what you think,” I snarled.
“If I don’t,” she said patiently, as if to a child, “Everyone will wonder why you’re only wearing one ear-ring. That will make them notice you.”
“One ear-ring?” My hand flew to my ear. I fingered the small, hard alien object that appeared to be fastened to my injured lobe.
“Yes. I’ve pierced one ear and put a stud in for you. I just have to do the other one.”
“Ear-rings? But I’ll look like a…”
“Yes, we want you to look like a girl, remember? It was OK last night with Harry and Barry, men don’t notice things like that, and to an extent the wig will conceal your ears, but it’s all girls tonight, OK? You’ve got to look right.”
I reluctantly suffered the agony of the second ear, and the antiseptic swabbing and then Jean allowed me to look in the mirror.
Well, I had to admit I looked a bit of a babe, my hair and the ear-rings were stunning!
“Hey, Jeannie,” I told her, “You’ve missed your vocation! You can make me up anytime!”
Again that head on one side look and the twisted smile. “So,” she said, “You think you might want to do this again sometime, then?”
“Oh! Well, no,” I blustered, “I mean…well, what I really meant…”
“Let’s check you out in the big mirror,” Jean suggested, cutting me off in mid-babble, thankfully before I could decide what I had really meant.
I slipped my feet easily into the black court shoes, again the same pair from yesterday, and we went along the landing to my mother’s room.
If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I would never have believed it. That girl was back again with a vengeance! Her shape looked even better tonight, the black dress fitting snugly to every curve as if made to measure, and as I’ve already said her hair and make-up, complemented by the tiny ear-rings, was superb. Her legs in the black nylons were as shapely as any I’d seen on a real girl.
Jean stood beside me, eyeing me contemplatively.
“I don’t think I should take you out tonight,” she told my reflection.
“Why not?” Her comment worried me.
“You’re too much competition,” she laughed. “I’m glad we’re not going out ‘on the pull.’ I wouldn’t get a look in. I never thought I’d say it, John, but you make a better looking girl than some of my girl-friends!”
I laughed, relieved, my self-confidence boosted by her ego talk. “Are we still sticking to the Kim story?” I asked her.
She nodded. “I think so, don’t you? We’ve got it off pat now; it’ll come as second nature if anyone asks.”
Back in my bedroom Jean took a small cloth case from her bag. “Try these,” she suggested, and from it produced a small chain-link necklace with one tiny diamond pendant suspended from it. Fastening it around my neck she nodded in satisfaction. “Thought that would look good,” she muttered, and handed me a couple of rings.
I carefully slipped them on, one on each hand, and again Jean nodded, satisfied. “You’d look a bit odd without some sort of jewellery,” she informed me. “You’ve got about the right minimum now. Effective but not flashy. In fact,” and she winked at me, “You’re a bit of a classy babe!”
I felt that old familiar flush climbing the back of my neck, and she laughed.
As we gathered our bags and coats up, my Mother came home.
“Are you two still here?” she called as she climbed the stairs.
Answered in the affirmative, she came into my bedroom, and looked us both over carefully. “Oh my God,” she breathed.
“What?” I said.
She moved forward and put her arms around me. “You look absolutely beautiful,” she told me.
I shifted uncomfortably, once more embarrassed, but inside I was bursting with pride. Yes! I was going to get away with this! Even my mother was convinced I could do it!
“Mum,” was all I said, in what I realised was a bit of a whining voice.
“Are you sure this is just a girls-only party?” she asked.
“Yes, why?”
“You both look as if you’re going out to pick up a couple of fellows. Jean, you look wonderful. John…” She turned to me. “I can only repeat, you look really great! I can’t believe how lucky I am!”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I’ve got a really handsome son, and now I find I’ve also got a daughter who will turn heads!” She winked at me. She, too, did not intend to discuss our two girly evenings together. Although I felt I wouldn’t mind Jean knowing at some time, tonight wasn’t right.
“Come on, Mum,” I said, remembering the reason for all this, “It’s only for tonight, so I can get free beer for half a year. Don’t get carried away!
She smiled. “I can dream, can’t I? I take it you’ll both be staying here again tonight?”
“If that’s OK,” said Jean. “We’ll get a cab from the party, and sneak in like last night.”
My Mother smiled again. “I heard you come in,” she told us. “No, you didn’t wake me, but a Mother worries about her daughter!”
“I think we’d better go,” I protested, “Before you get maudlin!”
It was obvious, from the music drifting into the street, that the party was well under way when we arrived. Although all the curtains were drawn, muted lighting shone from every window, and a couple of girls were standing just outside the open front door sharing a cigarette that I suspected from the smell wasn’t a brand freely available from your corner shop tobacconist.
Once again the journey had been uneventful, unless you count the predictable remarks that seemed to be the stock in trade of almost every other male group we encountered. It made me a little ashamed to be one of their gender, and I found my sympathies slowly swinging to the female side with every comment.
The one effect these asides had on me was to make me feel more comfortable in my adopted persona. It was obvious the guys had no idea I was anything other than what I appeared to be, and my confidence increased considerably.
The only cloud on the horizon was the discomforting prospect of being the forthcoming focus of female appraisal, a hurdle I was dreading, even though my morale was constantly being bolstered by Jean’s positive comments on my appearance.
Jean clicked open the front gate and passed through it with me a nervous and apprehensive close second, and smiling at the two smokers we pushed open the front door and entered.
The hallway was packed with women of all shapes and sizes and peering further along the hall to the kitchen I spotted more females chattering and laughing. The door to a room immediately on our left was open, and from this room came the sound of music and more laughter and giggling, while even more female shapes drifted in and out in a regular stream clutching glasses of drink and paper plates of food.
“Jean!”
A large shape detached itself from the formless throng and materialised in front of us, beaming. She was a big girl, attractive, wearing a flimsy and very frilly party dress. She flung her arms around Jean and kissed her warmly on the cheek.
“Mary.” Jean beamed back and embraced her friend. I knew it was Mary’s house and that she had instigated this get together.
“I hope you don’t mind,” said Jean, turning sideways to reveal me, “But I brought an old school-friend from years ago with me. Kim’s down with her parents for a flying visit.”
Mary gave me a quick hug and a perfunctory peck on the cheek. “The more the merrier,” she said, stepping back to look me up and down. “Love your dress! Is it new?”
“What, this old thing?” I found myself saying, slightly tongue in cheek, and Jean gave me a sharp sidelong glance.
Mary laughed. “I can tell you’re a bit of a joker,” she said. “Come and get a drink and mingle!”
We made our way to the kitchen, depositing the bottles and food Jean had thoughtfully provided to add to the provender, and sorted out drinks. All the time Jean was being accosted by old friends, and constantly introducing me to all and sundry. In every case I was accepted unconditionally by all present, and was surprised to receive flattering comments over my dress, my ear-rings and my hair. Apart from that nobody gave me a second glance, a suspicious or searching stare, or any indication that they believed I was not what I purported to be. Either Jean had pre-warned them all of my intended masquerade and sworn them to go along with it, or she was correct in thinking that, seeing what they expected to see, none of them had penetrated my disguise!
The evening flew by, and I enjoyed my fair share of the food, although I was careful to limit my drinking by holding a half-full glass of white wine in my hand for ages without taking a sip. The last thing I wanted to do was get drunk and reveal all.
Jean disappeared and reappeared at regular intervals, and I could see her in various parts of the house chatting to different girls and generally enjoying herself.
My own part in the evening was far from lonely. Hardly had Jean gone from my side than one or other of the females would appear beside me and engage me in conversation, quizzing me about my friendship with her, my clothes, what it was like where I lived, shopping, boys (a difficult subject that I felt I fielded quite well) and every other thing under the sun! I realised with a bit of a shock that I felt an integral part of the gathering, quite at home, and that I was enjoying myself immensely.
At odd times during the evening I found myself coming face to face with one particular girl, a beautiful blonde with cornflower blue eyes and a figure to die for. The first time we met was by the buffet, and she grinned at me while filling a paper plate with goodies.
“Hi. Enjoying yourself?”
I nodded, selecting food with a gluttonous intent. I was starving. “It’s great, isn’t it?” I offered.
“You’re a friend of Jean’s?”
I nodded again, just about to launch into the old school-friends routine, when she rather burnt my boats by saying, “Yes, we were at school together. How do you know her?”
I mumbled something about our parents being friends, which she appeared to accept. She popped a suspicious-looking hors d’ouvre on my plate.
“Try that, it’s gorgeous,” she said, munching one herself.
I slipped the pastry into my mouth. It tasted foul. I smiled as I chewed and manfully (girlfully?) swallowed it.
“Great,” I lied.
Her lips twitched. “You’re not a very good liar, are you?” she said, and turned.
I dabbed my lips with a paper serviette. “I try hard,” I told her, and she smiled, her eyes twinkling. Then “See you later,” and she disappeared into the throng.
I took a deep draught from my wineglass to dispel the taste of the strange morsel I had felt obliged to try.
Later she emerged from the loo where I had been waiting outside.
“Hello again!”
I couldn’t help but smile back at her. She was as beautiful as I remembered, and naturally vivacious. What’s more, she seemed to like me. Did I have a chance here? Should I try a chat routine? Uncomfortably I remembered I was a girl tonight. Life can sometimes be a bitch. Under normal circumstances I would have been making a play for her.
Under normal circumstances, I reminded myself, I wouldn’t have stood a chance with her. My success rate with girls was pretty low. She was the sort of girl Harry would have swept off her feet, with his strangely magical ways with the opposite sex.
“What’s up? You look a bit sad?”
I realised my face was reflecting my thoughts, a habit of mine that made me fairly useless as a dissembler. I smiled wanly. “Just thinking,” I fabricated, “What a great party, and what a shame it’ll come to an end!”
“All things must pass,” she said, slipping past me with a bright “See you later!”
“Hope so,” I mumbled to her departing back.
I finally succumbed to the temptation of another drink and drifted to the kitchen to fill my wineglass for the third time when I noticed the back door was ajar. Feeling a bit hot, I slipped quietly through it to find myself in a largish back garden, full of tall shrubs and wandering footpaths. I stood with my back to the wall at one side of the door, absorbed in the peace after the hubbub, relishing the fresh and free sensation of my girly clothing as I slowly cooled off.
The door slipped open again and a girl stepped through, also holding a glass. She looked around at me and smiled.
“Mind if I join you?”
“Of course not.” I smiled back.
It was my wishful thinking standing there, the girl who had swept me off my feet. She was about my age, with short blonde hair and beautiful blue eyes, and wearing a light blue strapless silk dress that set those eyes off to perfection. Her blue high heels also matched the dress and her eyes, and she wore a pair of slightly pendulous clear crystal ear-rings. She was absolute perfection, and my maleness asserted itself as prominently as it could given its concealed and secure trappings.
Since our brief chats I had noticed her a lot (in fact to tell the truth I had made a point of looking for her), and it had been obvious she was aware of me. Apart from those chats, for some reason, every so often, I would gaze up to see her looking towards me through the crowd, an enigmatic smile on her face.
Often, unobserved, I would see her in earnest conversation with friends, laughing at some unheard joke or making some serious point, emphasised by eloquent hand gestures, and been impressed by her unselfconscious poise and grace.
She looked at me, smiling again. “We meet again. Can I say how stunning you look?” she asked.
I flushed. Was she making fun of me? I demurred: “You beat the socks off everyone,” I heard myself saying. “You are beautiful.”
She laughed. “Laura,” she introduced herself.
“Kim,” I said, unsure whether to shake hands.
“I’ve been watching you all night,” she offered.
“I had noticed.”
“And you’ve been watching me.” It was said as a simple statement.
I felt my cheeks redden. “I have,” I admitted.
Her lips twitched in a quiet amusement. “Can I ask why?”
Truth is often the best route, I have found in the past. “Frankly,” I said, “I think you are the most beautiful and self-confident girl here tonight. I’ve been watching you because it’s been a pleasure to do so.”
“I thank you,” she told me, “Although it’s an unusual compliment to get from another girl.” Was there a question mark after that last sentence?
“Do you think it should be only boys who say you look nice, then?”
“I didn’t mean that. But you must be used to people saying how great you look, surely?
I blinked. If only she knew the truth. “I can’t say I am,” I told her honestly.
“I get the impression you’re not quite like the other girls,” she offered, a little cautiously.
Shit! I thought frantically. She was obviously the astute one in the pack, the only one to guess my secret! My disguise was not as good as we had hoped. I decided to play ignorant for a while.
I stalled, thinking hard. “How so?” I wondered aloud.
She smiled and placed her hand on my shoulder, then patted my hair. “You don’t have to pretend with me,” she murmured. “I am right, aren’t I?”
I figured that was her way of telling me she knew I was wearing a wig! I felt honest admission was the only thing now. If Jean was right, Laura would be so pleased she was the only one to find out about me that she wouldn’t tell anybody else. “I guess you’ve seen through me,” I said.
“Oh good. I thought I was right. I think you’re great. Do you think you could like me?”
I swallowed. What a ridiculous question. “Like you? I think I could fall in love with you,” I admitted, in a low voice. “In fact, I think I have fallen in love with you!”
Her eyes sparkled in the moonlight, her smile enveloped me, and she stood on tiptoe and kissed me lightly on the lips. I put my arms around her, drawing her closer, and we kissed again, this time passionately, our tongues teasing. I was intensely conscious of her warm and alluring femininity, and my penis was fighting like crazy to spring into action from the confines of my restricting panties.
I couldn’t believe this was really happening.
She looked up at me, surprise written over her face. “Wow!” she said, “That was great!” Her brow corrugated. “Have you got a girl-friend?” she accused me playfully, prodding my shoulder.
“Not at the moment,” I told her truthfully.
“Honestly? That’s hard to believe.”
“Trust me,” I told her. “I’ve been waiting all my life for you!”
She looked carefully into my eyes, searching for the lie. “I knew the moment I saw you,” she finally whispered. “Like calls to like, doesn’t it? We all find our own level.”
I nodded dumbly. What the hell is she talking about, I wondered vaguely. So beautiful, and it sounds like she’s got a screw loose!
“Hold me again,” she begged, and I pushed the thought from my mind. Who was I to refuse? I grabbed her carefully, and our dresses rustled silkily as we engaged in another kiss. She was wonderful. Not only had she figured out my secret, but she obviously didn’t care, and she liked the man she saw beneath the layers of feminine packaging. How lucky was I?
As we stood apart again, the kitchen door opened.
“Kim?”
It was Jean. “Oh, hi Laura,” she acknowledged the girl’s presence, and then looked at me. “We’d better think about going,” she informed me, “It’s getting late. Perhaps another half-hour?”
“We were just chatting,” I said inconsequentially, for no reason whatsoever. Then, “Half-an-hour? Sure.”
“Have you got a moment,” she then said, and touched Laura on the shoulder. “You don’t mind if I steal Kim for five minutes, do you?”
Laura smiled, a touch wistfully I thought. Hoped. “Of course not.”
As I turned to go she took my hand. “Will you have time to come back to finish our chat?” she asked.
I looked at Jean, who paused. “Oh,” she said, slowly, looking at each of us in turn, “I should think so.”
I smiled at Laura as she released my fingers. “I’ll see you in a minute,” I told her.
Back in the house I pushed Jean into a quiet corner excitedly.
“Guess what?” I told her, “Laura knows who I am! And she doesn’t care! She actually likes me!”
“She knows who you are?”
“Yep! She saw through my disguise straight away!”
Jean blinked and stared at me in disbelief. “She knows you’re a boy?”
“Well,” I admitted, “She didn’t say so in so many words, but it’s obvious from the way she kissed me she fancies me rotten! How lucky am I? Don’t you think she’s beautiful?”
“She kissed you?” Jean was doing her parrot impression.
“Yes! She said she knew I wasn’t like the other girls, then she snogged me like there was no tomorrow! I am so in with this girl, Jean!”
Jean put her arm around my shoulder and lowered her voice. “You don’t think there might be another explanation?” she suggested.
“What? What do you mean? What sort of explanation?”
Jean said slowly, “Don’t get me wrong, Kim, Laura and I go back a long way, and she’s one of my better friends. She’d do anything for you…”
“She can do anything for me,” I said enthusiastically.
“That’s just it,” Jean said, shaking me by the shoulders to bring me back down from cloud nine. “She’s not kissing you because she’s discovered you’re a fanciable bloke in drag.”
“What? Then why is she kissing me?”
“She’s kissing you because she doesn’t think you’re a fanciable bloke in drag. If she thought that she’d run a mile. She’s kissing you because she thinks you’re a girl.”
My mind didn’t quite comprehend what Jean was saying. “Don’t be silly. Why would a girl want to kiss another girl? Surely it’s only … oh!”
Light dawned.
“Cracked it,” Jean told me. “Much as I love Laura, and I know she’d like me to love her, she is without a doubt not interested in men. It’s girls she has the hots for!”
“So she really thinks … “
“No doubt about it,” Jean said. “You’ve won the female impersonator prize hands down, clear leader. You’re so good at it, even a lesbian thinks you’re the real thing!”
I swore as my new-found happiness crumbled about me. “What am I going to do?”
Jean looked concerned. “Well, I think we ought to go now, anyway. Let her down gently, Kim. She is a good friend, regardless of her sexual preferences, and I wouldn’t want to hurt her.”
“I’ll do my best.” It’s true. Your heart can ache. Mine was.
“Ten minutes,” said Jean, as I turned back towards the kitchen door.
Laura was still outside, nursing her glass in her arms and staring at the star-studded sky. She turned as I came out, an odd smile on her lips.
“Well?” She said.
“Well what?”
She came closer to me, and touched my bosom. “I suppose Jean has been warning you off me,” she said.
I couldn’t help myself, even knowing the truth I still thought she was gorgeous. I enfolded her in my arms, squashing her to me. Her hair smelt wonderful, her perfume took my breath away.
“Jean has done nothing of the sort,” I said. “She told me you were one of her best friends.”
She looked up at me with misty eyes. “Did she?” she asked. “And is she your best friend? I always thought she was straight.”
So Jean had been telling me the truth, not that I had doubted her for a moment. I kissed Laura’s inviting lips. God help me, I couldn’t help myself.
“I have to be honest and say I fancy Jean something rotten,” I told her. “However, Jean is as straight as they come. And she has a fiancé to boot!”
“And where does that leave you and me?”
Where did it leave us? Absolutely nowhere. If I admitted the truth to her now, she would probably claw my eyes out. I liked her enough not to want to upset her if I could possibly help it.
“I’m only down here for a few days,” I told her. “Having met you, I wish it was longer, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”
Laura nestled close to me, hugging me close, smelling of every sweet thing I had ever desired in my whole life.
“So we meet and we part?” She said. “Is that how it was meant to be, do you think?”
I looked her in the eyes. “Laura, I only met you tonight. Believe me, I’ve fallen in love with you, head over heels. But I live a long way away, and I have to go back.”
“But you could write,” she suggested. “If I give you my address and phone number? We could talk on the phone?”
Coward that I am, I accepted the life-line.
“Of course,” I agreed, “Why not? And you never know,” holding out even more false hope, “I will always visit Jean again whenever I can.”
She fumbled in her bag and scribbled on a piece of paper. “Promise,” she said intensely. “Promise you’ll be in touch.”
“Cross my heart,” I lied, “And hope to die.”
The anticipated lightning bolt from Heaven didn’t materialise, and I lived to lie another day.
Her lips suddenly locked on to mine, and I gave this last kiss everything I had. Finally she released me and touched a finger to my lips.
“Love you,” she murmured.
“I love you, too,” I said, cursing the fates that had brought her to me, that had led to her to falling in love with a sham and me with a hopeless cause. I folded the slip of paper and put it in my own bag.
“See you, then.” I could hardly drag myself away from those appealing eyes.
Laura watched me but said nothing.
“Bye.” I backed away through the kitchen door.
Jean met me in the hall with our coats, and we made our goodbyes. As we walked down the street she said, “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Did you let her down gently?”
“I did my best, Jean, but it was difficult. I hope to God I didn’t hurt her, because sure as eggs is eggs I’m hurting. Why is it my luck to find a gorgeous girl like that who isn’t interested in men?”
“You really liked her,” said Jean wonderingly, and put an arm around my shoulders. I felt tears welling up in my eyes, and fumbled for a handkerchief. What the hell was wrong with me? I was crying because in one evening I’d fallen in love to find that the object of my passion was a lesbian. And make no mistake, I did cry. For five minutes I shook uncontrollably, Jean holding me close like the honorary sister she was, patting my back while I let it all out.
Finally I felt more comfortable and dabbed at my nose and eyes with my handkerchief. Looking at Jean I said, “Has my make-up run? Is my mascara smudged?”
She began to laugh then, and after a few seconds I joined in, laughing at myself, and my luck, and the ridiculous situation I had just emerged from.
Arm in arm, like a couple of female drunks, we hailed a taxi and went home.
Part 6
By Kim Johns
Neither Jean nor I mentioned the Laura incident, it seemed best forgotten, although I couldn’t help feeling a little sad — no, make that incredibly wretched - that such a beautiful girl preferred her own sex, especially as I had felt we were getting on so well. However, that was probably because she didn’t realise I was male. Had she worked it out, I would more than likely have been limping home singing soprano.
Eventually Jean, after congratulating me once again on a deception well played, finally decided it was time to make her way home; the remainder of Sunday dragged by, and before I knew it here came Monday and work again!
It was just as well work intervened, keeping my mind busy during the day, because my next few nights were still long, sleepless and worrying. I had difficulty believing what had happened to me over the past seven days. I had been my mother’s daughter, traipsed around publicly dressed in girl’s clothes, seduced my best friend to a point where I had felt obliged to give him a blow job for fear he would realise he was lusting after a bloke, and been so convincing as a female that a lovely, attractive lesbian had been ready and willing to spend time with me!
I was baffled and confused. There was absolutely no doubt in my mind that I had enjoyed spending those moments as a girl, that I had felt really comfortable wearing the light and sensual materials that made up female clothing, and that I had revelled in the different outlook on life that I had begun to feel by mixing with and acting as one of the female gender; so much so that I was beginning to have serious doubts about my own sexuality.
On the other hand, I knew my body still desired Jean - a waste of time after her one-off gift to me because Barry was still king there! — and I continued to enjoy watching other women and fantasising over them. And I still really rated Laura. Had she not been what she was, I could have worshipped at her feet forever. What exactly was it that was wrong with me?
I found myself wandering zombie-like into my mother’s bedroom on more than one occasion, unable to help myself, and staring blindly at the box on top of her wardrobe where we had stored Kim’s clothes, imagining myself once more the belle of the ball.
More than once I had lifted it down and removed the lid, running my hands through the light, sensual fabrics within and inhaling the faint whiff of perfume that still clung to them. It had taken a more than superhuman effort not to succumb to the temptation to dress in them again.
In the evenings I frequently noticed my mother gazing at me from the corner of her eye, although she said nothing. I knew she had noticed my withdrawn and thoughtful behaviour. She made no more mention of my success with the bet, but I had the strangest feeling she was often just a hair’s breadth away from asking me to become Kim again.
What would have been my reaction had she asked? I couldn’t think about it, didn’t dare consider it; my mind wasn’t able to cope with the possibilities that had been brought to life by this simple youthful prank. There was more going on here than met the eye.
I was no Freud, but I was having to try to come to terms with who and what I was, or wanted to be, and my brain, never the best of organs, was struggling with the options that, suddenly, had revealed themselves to me as being available, and dare I say it, desirable.
On the Wednesday evening things came to a head. We had finished clearing up after dinner, and were, as usual, sitting watching the brain-drain machine in the corner of the room, sipping our evening choice of alcoholic tipple.
My mother, again as usual, had been giving me those corner-of-the-eye glances, which I had ignored. I was still immersed in my own deep thoughts, trying to work out the confusion.
“Penny for them.”
I looked up. “What?”
“Penny for your thoughts,” repeated my mother.
“Oh…nothing,” I offered generously.
“Nothing? Has it just been nothing these last few days, then?”
“What do you mean?”
She smiled at me, you know, that motherly smile that suggests she knows far more about your own thoughts than you do.
“John, since the weekend you’ve said no more than two words to me. If you’re not hiding in your bedroom you’re sitting down here, just like tonight, pretending to watch that flickering screen but in reality lost in your own little world! What’s up, doc?”
I shifted uncomfortably. “Oh, nothing really. Just thinking.”
“Anything I can help with?”
Temptation lured me. Should I share my troubles with her? After all, that’s what mothers were for. I was sorely troubled, and I didn’t think she would laugh at me with scorn, but did I really want to bare my soul to her?
“OK,” she said, “How about this? You’ve been obsessed with something since the weekend. Over the weekend you first of all became Kim on Friday night, then Saturday night. I know both evenings went well, because you told me so. But you’ve been thinking a lot about something since then, and it’s worrying you. I deduce, Watson, that it’s something to do with that girl.”
“All right, Holmes,” I said, “You’ve worked out that much; see if you can work out the rest.”
Mum leaned back in her chair and made a lattice-work steeple with her fingers, pursing her lips as she did so. Then she astounded me.
“I think,” she began, “That you enjoyed being Kim for me during the week. I think you were surprised to find you enjoyed being her on Friday and Saturday. I think you miss being her now, and would like to be her again. I also think that you are frightened and don’t understand your longing. You’re afraid you might be turning into a sissy.”
I blushed at her accuracy. “How do you do that?” I asked. “Have you been reading tea-leaves again?”
“Am I right?”
I sighed. “Of course. Mum, I think something’s wrong with me. I keep going to that blasted box in your bedroom and wondering whether to dress up again — wanting, as you so rightly say, to be that damn girl again! Then I think, if I do, what will you say? What will you do? Will you give me a slap and tell me not to be so silly, or laugh like a drain? I’m scared at what I’m feeling.”
“You think I’d make fun of you?”
I shook my head. “Not really. I don’t know. I’m frightened that I’m not normal!”
Mum looked at me with her head on one side. “What’s normal?”
I shrugged.
“If I ask you a question, will you give me an honest answer?”
Where was this leading? I looked at her blankly. “I…think so.”
“OK. Do you really, in your heart of hearts, want to be Kim again?”
My face felt as if it was doing its hot boiler impression again. I think you could have poached an egg on my cheeks. I was silent for a few moments, thinking fiercely. This was honesty time. If I couldn’t tell my mother, who could I tell?
I nodded slowly. “Yes, mum, I think I do.”
“Sure?”
I nodded again. “Sure. Is there something wrong with me? Do you think I’ve gone crazy?”
She placed her drink on the side table and stood up. Holding out her hand she said “Come with me.”
What now? Obediently I stood and took her outstretched hand. She led me out of the room.
In her bedroom, she sat me on the bed, and while I watched in astonishment she lifted down the box containing Kim’s clothes.
“Just remember one thing, John,” she said. “I love you as my son, and I’m proud of you. I also loved you as my daughter Kim, but that is not why I’m doing this. This has to be for you.” She placed the box beside me on the bed. “I’m going to get another drink. I won’t tell you to think hard and long about things because you’ve already been doing that for days, but try and make some sort of a decision. I won’t mind who joins me in the living room, whoever it is will still be my child.”
As I tried to speak she placed a finger on my lips.
“Remember,” she repeated, “This has to be for you.”
She left the room, and I sat and stared at the box. I knew my mother had enjoyed Kim being her daughter, but I was confident that she wasn’t trying to pressure me into repeating the role. She wanted me to be sure in my own mind what it was I really wanted.
But of course, that was the problem. Did I really know what I wanted? Still, I had been brooding for too long. She was right. Time to make up my mind what route I wanted to take here. If I dressed now, I still wouldn’t be burning my male boats. It wasn’t as if there was no turning back. Tomorrow I would still be John again at work. Could I have the best of both worlds? Is that what mum was really trying to tell me?
Hesitantly I rested the palm of my hand on the lid of the box. I could feel two forces at work on me, an imp-sized John on my right shoulder whispering in my ear “Don’t do it; resist. You are what you are,” whilst on my left shoulder a Christmas tree fairy-sized Kim seduced me with “You are what you want to be.”
The lid slipped easily off the box, revealing the clothing within. I gently sifted through those feminine garments, a strange and subtle longing rising from within me to surface in a sudden decision.
I hastily stripped off and stared at my naked body in the full-length mirror. No doubt there. I was unashamedly male in the fullest physical sense of the word, and my penis was quivering at half-mast, excited no doubt by the prospects of what might happen next.
I closed my eyes and reached into the deepest parts of my mind, praying for some sort of divine guidance. None came, but I suddenly knew what I had to do.
I slipped the silky panties on with trembling hands, pulling them around me and, with a little difficulty, arranged my semi-erect member in its hiding place between my legs. Oh, the sensuous feeling as the soft material glided into place over my still-smooth legs! My mind and my vision had become curiously tunnelled, focussed only on the here and now.
With an unaccustomed ease I pulled the matching bra around me and secured it, slipping my arms through the straps and tugging it gently into place. The breast forms were snug against my chest as I slipped them into the bra cups, chill at first but soon warming to body temperature.
Wriggling in what I hoped might, to an outside observer, be construed as a sexy movement, I eased the black tights gently up my legs and over my hips, stretching them securely into my crotch where they provided extra strength in maintaining my manhood firmly out of sight.
The lightest of touches of eye make-up and lipstick, and the shift dress settled easily over my head and around my eager body. It was like coming home again, feeling the familiar yet alien clothing accommodating my bodily desire. I knew Kim had awoken from her light doze and was alert, watching me with interest if not delight.
Slipping the low-heeled shoes on I sat and manipulated the wig into place after brushing it carefully. I made it fast as Jean had shown me, and shook my head. It stayed put. I realised my heart was beating fast, and there was a strange but pleasurable ache in my groin.
A swift rummage discovered the small stud ear-rings, and my fingers fumbled a little with excitement as I fitted them in place. A ring on one finger of each hand, a critical glance into the mirror and a gentle pat to my hair, and here I (Kim) was, back in the world again.
Kim smiled at me, pleased to be here, and I realised just how much I loved her, not in a narcissistic way but as my alter ego, the female side of me.
I stood up and gave an exaggerated twirl and no, my bum didn’t look at all big in the dress! I once more, in fact, looked the babe I had always accepted Kim to be. I revelled in the feeling as the clothes brushed my body, soft, exciting and so right.
I had indeed come home.
My mother made no comment when I returned to the living room, but the flickering light from the television revealed a sudden moistness in her eyes as she looked up and saw me. She smiled.
“Bring your chair over here, beside mine,” she suggested, “And we can talk.”
I did as she suggested while she poured us both another drink, and then we sat and looked at each other. Mum raised her glass.
“Hello, Kim,” she said.
My own glass tinkled musically against hers, the liquid within swaying slightly at the movement.
“Hello, mum.”
She sighed softly and took a sip, then leaned back in her chair.
“Kim and John, John and Kim,” she half-whispered, staring unseeingly at the ceiling.
“Mum?”
She turned to me earnestly. “It doesn’t matter to me who you want to be,” she said, “You are still my child. If I came home one night to John, then that’s good, and I’m happy. If I came home another night and found Kim, that’s equally as good. Be who you want to be, dear, whenever you want to.”
Her words reassured me. It sounded very much as I had thought — I could indeed have the best of both worlds, John’s and Kim’s. I was silent for a moment. “You don’t think it odd that, as a boy, I would want to dress as a girl?”
A faint smile flickered across her lips. “They are only clothes. You are who you are, and what you wear won’t change that.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t lie to you.”
I relaxed in my chair and let the warm, comforting feelings slip over me. I felt so right being Kim. I may not want to be her tomorrow, but that was another day, and Kim had as much of a right to her share of the world as John did. My mother didn’t object, and that was good enough for me. At the moment, this would do. I didn’t want to look ahead to see where it might lead.
On Thursday I got a phone call from Jean.
“Are you up for Friday night as usual?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said slowly. “I haven’t heard from either of the guys, but regardless of that I’m wondering whether a meet is going to be an awfully good idea.”
“Well,” she said, “I think they were expecting to hear from you, according to Barry. They assumed that if you did attend the party as planned you’d be on the phone straight away crowing about it.”
“So Barry thinks, because I’ve kept quiet, that I didn’t do it?”
“Yes; he thinks he’s won the bet, and if he thinks that, then so does Harry.”
“Was Barry hassling you about it, then?”
“Of course. He tried all ways to get out of me whether you went or not. I told him he’s got to wait until we all meet up, then he can ask you himself.”
“Bet he didn’t like that.”
“No, but it made him be extra nice to me, trying to get it out of me. Didn’t work, though.”
“So you still think they didn’t make the connection?”
“Connection?”
“You know, I wasn’t there on Friday, but Kim was? A bit like never seeing Superman and Clark Kent at the same time!”
Jean giggled. “Hmm. I know what you mean. Well, I don’t think they did, and knowing Barry, if he had I’m sure he would have said something.”
“I’m still worried. I think Harry might have clicked.”
“Well, you did get rather close to him,” she commented dryly.
“Don’t remind me. I shudder every time I think of it.”
“All I can say about that,” Jean continued, “Is that Harry has been in touch with Barry during the week raving about how great Kim is. He is totally smitten with her. You might have to start looking at wedding dresses!”
“Don’t joke about it,” I said sharply. “He’s really going to get a let-down tomorrow night when we tell him the truth.”
The girl laughed. “Serve him right, the way he’s treated some of his girl-friends in the past. You’ll be standing up for the sisterhood by bringing him down to earth.”
“Yeah, but he’s my mate,” I said. “We ought to have told them Friday night who I really was. I don’t mind telling you, Jeannie, I’m worried as hell about facing Harry.”
There was a silence. Finally, “Yes, I see what you mean. How is Harry going to react when he finds out it wasn’t Kim — a girl — who…pleasured him on Friday night, but his best friend, a bloke?”
“Exactly. I can’t say I’m over the moon about the thought of owning up to that little scene!”
“So you think not turning up will solve it?”
“No, it won’t. I’ve got to see them at some time or another. I just wonder whether it might be better to let them think I didn’t do it.”
“Didn’t do what?”
“Go to the party as a girl.”
“Expensive.”
“What?”
“You’d be committing yourself to buying them both beer for six months.”
“True.” But the least of my worries, I considered silently.
“Also, Harry is going to wonder about the sudden disappearance of Kim.”
“What do you mean?”
“Unless you play a very devious game over the phone or by letter, Kim will, to all intents and purposes, have vanished into thin air.”
I sighed. “Any suggestions?”
“Well, coming out as Kim solves two problems; it shows you won the bet, and it tells Harry that Kim won’t be around any more.”
“It’s more how he’s going to react that worries me. I still can’t believe I did that to him!”
Jean giggled again. “A first for both of you. Well, John, it’s up to you. I don’t know that I can advise you over this one.”
“Just tell me, Jean. If it was your problem, what do you think you’d do?”
There was a pause as I heard her audibly breathe out. Slowly she said “I think personally I’d be inclined to tell the truth and shame the devil. After all, Barry doesn’t know about the…you know…what you did to Harry, unless Harry bragged about it to him, and Harry certainly doesn’t know you told me, unless again you let him know so.”
“Yeah. I’ll have to give it some thought. Some more thought. It’s been on my mind for the past week. OK, I’ll come along on Friday. What I do or say is still up in the air.”
“Oh, and while we’re talking about mates…”
“Go on.”
“I’ve had a couple of calls from Laura during the week.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Indeed. You were going to let her down gently, as I remember.”
“Er, yeah.”
“So what happened? She’s wondering why you haven’t phoned her. Wanted to know if you — Kim — had said anything about her before you went back home.”
“What did you say?”
“I just said you’d always been an odd girl…”
“Ain’t that the truth,” I interrupted.
“…And you never could tell what went on in your mind. I did say I knew you had really liked her.”
“That’s true, until I found out she batted for the other side. Jean, I can’t believe that night. I’d been looking for Miss Right all my life, and when I found her she was Miss Wrong.”
“John, she’s still my friend. She is terribly upset. I think she had been looking for Miss Right as well, and thought you were she. As she tells it, you told a lot of lies about keeping in touch, and of course she’s heard no more.”
I bit my lip. I felt a heel. “What could I do, Jeannie? If I’d got in touch with her, she’d have thought the relationship had a chance of going somewhere, which of course it hasn’t. It’s probably better that she thinks I’m some flaky lesbo who’s let her down badly. She’ll soon forget me.”
“I hope so,” Jean said coldly.
“Hey, Jean, don’t let’s fall out over this. You’re the last person I want to desert me now. I know I’m a shit, and I liked — loved - Laura enough not to want to have hurt her, but there was never going to be an easy way out of this one.”
“I suppose not. You’re probably right. I just don’t like my friends getting hurt.”
“Sorry.”
“OK, enough sackcloth and ashes. Tomorrow night. I’ve already told Barry I’ll meet up with you first and we’ll join them at the pub,” she said.
To say I was worried about meeting up with Harry on Friday night would be a bit of an understatement. I was firmly convinced that my revelation to him would result in violence, and the frightening thing was that that violence would be directed at me!
I didn’t consider myself a coward, no more than the next guy, but I had never gone out of my way to seek confrontation. I was not looking forward to our next encounter.
Perhaps it was the worry over that, or indeed my still great concerns over my actions in general over the last week, but John decided to go into hiding until he was forced back into the world again.
When my mother arrived home on that Thursday evening it was a rather quiet Kim who greeted her with a drink, the smell of cooking emanating from the kitchen. I seemed to get some form of solace from the simple act of rustling up a meal, a settling of my troubled mind.
“Kim.” My mother acknowledged me.
“Hi, mum.” As I handed her the glass, I impulsively pecked her on the cheek. I felt she had given me an enormous amount of support over the last few days, and I loved her all the more for it.
“You still look a little perturbed,” she remarked, peering at me over the rim of her glass.
I busied myself with some minor washing up. “I’m concerned,” I admitted. “I’m meeting Harry tomorrow, and I’m worried how he’s going to react.”
“Harry and Barry?” She emphasised the addition of the second name, then gave me a shrewd look. “Or just Harry in particular?”
I blushed, sweet little old-fashioned girl that I am. Not, as we all know by now.
“Er, Harry.”
My mum must have collared the franchise on enigmatic smiles. She and the Mona Lisa, anyway. “Something you’ve not told me?”
I turned to face her, swallowing hard. “Mum, there’s a lot I haven’t told you, and a lot you’ll never hear. But yeah, Harry was coming on to Kim on Friday night.”
“OK, so your confession will make him look a bit sick.”
I hesitated. “Trouble is, mum, Kim was coming on to Harry as well.”
“Ah.”
“I told you I thought I wasn’t normal,” I blurted out. “Mum, I fancied Harry! My best mate!” I could feel the water welling up in my eyes as I told her.
She put her arms around me and hugged me. “Oh, my poor dear,” she said, holding me tightly and kissing my forehead. I flung my arms around her.
“Mum, I’m scared! I knew what Harry was doing, I’ve seen him chatting up enough girls to know how he operates, but I was enjoying it! And I felt attracted to him!”
“And did anything happen?”
My embarrassment and shame knew no bounds. I hung my head, feeling like a naughty schoolboy who’s been found out in some wrongdoing. Or should that be schoolgirl?
“We danced together…”
“Just danced?” she probed.
“Mum, he was getting…” How on earth do you tell your mother a guy was getting a hard-on for you?
Her eyes flashed. “Yes, I think I know where you’re going with that! Anything else?”
“He kissed me.”
“What?”
“We went outside and he kissed me, mum.”
She still had her strong, supportive arms sheltering me from my own inner storm. “How did that make you feel?”
I looked into her face. “I liked it. I didn’t want him to stop. I kissed him back!”
“Whoa!” She stepped away from me. “I don’t know if I like the sound of this.”
Face flaming, I knew she would never, ever, hear what really happened in the garden. I wore my shame like a badge, and I swear she realised I was keeping something from her, but it would never pass my lips.
“Just kissing,” I said, eyes averted.
“And you liked it?”
“Does that make me a bad person, mum?”
“It makes you puzzled and confused. It perhaps means we need to talk again. I’m beginning to think that Kim may not have been such a good idea now.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Kim!” I defended her fiercely. “She’s just a girl who’s…discovered boys,” I ended lamely.
“Then perhaps I bought her up the wrong way,” said my mother in a strangely stiff voice. “I hope my daughter’s not going to end up a little tart!”
Those words wounded me, even though I was aware of the truth in them. Salt tears streamed down my hot cheeks. Mum stroked my unhappy face.
“I’ll get changed,” she said. “Then we’ll eat, and after that…we’ll definitely talk!”
And so we talked, but in fact we didn’t get anywhere.
Mum was very concerned over what I had told her, and began blaming herself for being too enthusiastic when her ‘daughter’ had appeared.
“Hey,” I objected, “You only found out by chance. If you hadn’t come home early that night, you’d never have known anything about it!”
“No, true, but I did. And then — I can’t believe I did it, now — I asked you to dress up just for me! I’m a silly, foolish old woman!”
I put my arm around her shoulders, me being protective now.
“I don’t think your involvement would have made much difference, mum,” I told her. “That box of clothes has been sending out a siren song to me from the top of the wardrobe ever since you put it there on Sunday morning.”
“I should have made Jean take it away with her,” she grumbled. “This stupid bet has changed you from a carefree, fun-loving young man into a confused and confounded worrier!”
“The trouble is,” I pointed out, “Regardless of what happened with Harry, I’m comfortable being Kim. I spend a day at work as John, and when I get home I can chill out by being somebody else if I want to!”
“And I suggested it was perfectly all right for you to do that! I’m having second thoughts now!”
“Even if you changed your mind, it wouldn’t make any difference now. Mum, if you had laughed at me when I was Kim, made fun of me, it just might have made a difference, although I seriously doubt it. But you took it in your stride and accepted me as I was. I know you support me when I’m Kim.”
She gave a heavy sigh. “It’s because I want to know you’re happy,” she told me, “Although I can’t see much happiness in you now.”
“That’s because I’m still confused. I have this strange feeling that there are deeper reasons for what’s happening than just a change of clothes.”
“You don’t…fancy boys…do you?”
My turn to sigh. “Mum, no. I fancy girls, and I wish I could find myself a half-way decent girl like Jean and be happy for the rest of my life, just like in a fairy story. The real trouble is, when I’m Kim, I do like guys. I fancied Harry something rotten on Friday. I couldn’t help myself. As John, he’s just my mate — my best friend. As Kim, he’s an attractive hunk! ”
“Do you think you should talk to someone about this?”
“I’m talking to you…”
“No, I meant someone professional.”
“A doctor? Do you think I’m ill? Or am I losing my mind?”
“Maybe…no, I mean maybe see a doctor, not maybe you’re ill or mad! If you did, you might get a referral to someone who is experienced in dealing with this type of problem.”
“I don’t know, mum. I don’t think I’d be too comfortable discussing my possible sexuality disorders with someone I didn’t know.”
“Perhaps, once you’ve spoken to the guys tomorrow, you should think about getting rid of those clothes for good. It might be a good time for Kim to say a permanent goodbye.”
I smoothed my dress carefully. Maybe she was right. Could I bear to see them go? I didn’t know.
“Let’s see how it goes, mum. The most important thing at the moment is that you don’t fall about kicking your legs in the air with laughter whenever I’m Kim. I appreciate that.”
“All right. But I’m here for you if you need to talk any more about it.”
I hugged her. “I know you are. What would I do without you?”
On Friday evening Jean and I found ourselves entering another of Barry’s newfound inns. We knew he was already there, having spotted his car in the car-park, and sure enough he and Harry were again ensconced at a corner table.
As Jean and Barry exchanged their ritual peck on the lips, Harry looked at me enquiringly, one eyebrow raised quizzically, tapping the rim of his empty beer glass with his fingernail.
“Guess it must be your round, then,” he told me, a smirk playing over his lips.
I bridled a little at his smug assumption, and then couldn’t help but grin at him. “How do you figure that, then?” I asked him.
Barry sat down next to Jean and drained his own glass. “Come on,” he said, putting it on the table noisily, “We know you didn’t go to the party!”
“What makes you say that?” I queried again.
“Because we know who Jean really went with,” Barry informed me dramatically.
“Oh,” I said, and paused for effect, slowly looking first at Harry, then Barry. “You mean Kim!”
Both my friends’ jaws dropped.
“You met Kim?” asked Harry.
“When?” said Barry.
I smiled. “Why, at Jean’s party!”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Harry sarcastically. “We’re going to need a bit more than just your say-so.”
I looked at him, still smiling. “Well,” I said, “Let’s just say that I thought Kim was a real babe, and that if she hadn’t met you first I reckon we might have had something going for us by now!”
Harry flushed slightly, then looked pleased, his eyes bright. A shadow of doubt crossed his face. “Yeah, but Jean could have told you about Friday night,” he said. His fingernail tapped the rim of his glass again. “Still getting thirsty,” he repeated.
I glanced over at Jean. “Did I or did I not go to your party?”
She nodded emphatically. “Yes, John, you did.”
“Yes,” Barry interjected, “But did you go dressed as a girl?”
“Bazza, they wouldn’t have let me in dressed as a bloke! It was a girly ‘do,’ remember?”
Barry grunted. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered disbelievingly, shaking his head.
“Tell him, Jean,” I said wearily.
She laughed. “Yes, Barry, he did exactly as you asked!”
Barry frowned. “Yeah, but you would say that, wouldn’t you? Not that I think you’d lie to us, Jean, but don’t you think we need a bit more proof than just your word?”
“You didn’t say you wanted anything more than our word,” I pointed out.
“No, but you can’t expect us…” began Harry.
“As it happens,” Jean announced, fumbling in her handbag, “I did take a few photos at the party!”
“You did?” I said, surprised. It crossed my mind then that I had been aware of the occasional flash from a camera now and again throughout that evening, although I hadn’t noticed who had been wielding it.
Jean placed a wallet-sized envelope on the table, and taking the photographs from it passed them one-by-one to Barry, who in turn passed them to Harry, who handed them to me.
All the photographs were crowded with girls, of course, but every one of them had me in my Kim persona in it somewhere. The boys looked at them all in silence.
“Well, I can see plenty of shots of Kim,” commented Harry at last, “But I’m darned if I can spot John anywhere.”
“Yeah,” Barry agreed. “I give up. I think you’re just wasting time before you admit you failed. I’m getting thirstier by the minute.”
Harry nodded. “Me too. Jean, which one is John, assuming he really is here?”
Jean laughed. “You two are really slow. John is in every one of those shots. Look again!”
Half-heartedly Harry and Barry picked up one or two photos again, looking briefly at them before throwing them back on the table in disgust.
“The only person in every snap that I recognise is Kim,” Barry said sulkily as Jean and I grinned at each other.
Harry looked up sharply. “Wait a minute,” he said slowly, picking up one of the shots again and looking carefully at it. Then he looked at me, puzzled. His face was a picture. He believed he had solved the puzzle, but didn’t want his answer to be the truth.
“Have you cracked it?” asked Jean.
“No!” Barry suddenly said loudly as he, too, realised the truth, and then flushed as people looked over at our conspiratorial group. He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “Are you trying to tell me that Kim is John — or John is Kim?”
Jean nodded, smiling. I sat back quietly, letting them get on with it, although I was covertly watching Harry like a hawk. How was he going to react to this?
It was Harry’s turn to flush as he looked quickly at me. “Are you saying it was you with Jean last Friday night?” he said slowly.
“It was a try-out,” I told him, my voice apologetic. “We wanted you to know what I would look like on the Saturday. Trouble was, we never got around to telling you. We...er...got a bit sidetracked,” I finished lamely.
His mouth was open, a flush had appeared on his cheeks and he was looking at me with a peculiar expression in his eyes. I knew what he was thinking. What was he going to do?
“No, no, no,” Barry shook his head emphatically. “We’d have recognised you. We’ve known you for too many years, haven’t we Harry?”
Harry nodded dumbly, his gaze fixed disbelievingly on my face. He half believed.
“You and Jean have put your heads together over this. She’s told you what happened that night.”
“Yeah!” Harry turned away, relaxed a little and settled back in his seat, looking relieved. “Jean told you about Kim and that she was taking her to the party, so you cooked up this story to make us believe Kim was you!”
Barry nodded his head vigorously. “Yes! Nice try, son. Get your money out! The next round’s on you — and the next, and the next, for six months!” He grinned in triumph.
I shrugged, gazing first at Jean and then Barry, then turned my head and looked Harry in the eye. “In that case, you’d better have this.” I held my closed fist out to him. He automatically held his own hand out, palm upward, and I dropped his ring in it.
A silence enveloped the table as he stared in horror at the object I had handed him. He went pale, looked at me sharply, looked back at the ring, and then flushed a deep red from his neck upwards as he slowly turned to face me again.
“Really you?” he croaked.
I nodded. I didn’t like the look on his face. I sensed things were going badly, but he — they - deserved the truth. I ploughed on. “I could give you chapter and verse if you want. Do you want?”
He hastily shook his head as Barry looked on puzzled and Jean chuckled from deep within her throat.
“Don’t worry, Harry,” I said kindly. “I will keep in touch, you know.”
He flushed again, still staring at the ring, then his chair scraped backwards on the linoleum flooring and he stood up, anger etched in his every movement. “You are a shit,” he told me, reaching for his jacket.
I grasped his arm. “Hang on, Harry,” I said, “It wasn’t my idea to do this. You and Barry started it, thinking it was impossible for me. Now you don’t like it ‘cause I took it all the way!”
He shook my hand away impatiently, anger flaring in his eyes. Startled, I saw his fists clench, and prepared myself for the blow I felt sure was imminent. He looked hard at me, then away again. “But what you did,” he started to say, then stopped.
“That’s for you and me to sort out on our own,” I said. “It’s nothing to do with Jean and Barry. The thing is, I won the bet! Now, you can either be a loser with good grace, or run off and sulk!”
Barry had watched our exchange with curious eyes, aware of the undercurrent of animosity running between us but not knowing why. Now he looked at Harry.
“Did you give Kim that ring?”
Harry turned to him, his tensed frame relaxing slightly as he breathed slowly out through his nostrils and nodded.
Barry grinned. “Well, it looks as if that proves it and John and Jean are right. Bloody hell, you had us all fooled last Friday, I’ve got to admit. You make a great girl! Don’t you think so, Harry?”
Harry sat down again, looking at me. “Yeah,” he said in a low voice. “Great.”
I can’t say that I was particularly thrilled by the strange gleam I noticed in his eyes as he turned away from me. A cold shiver ran down my back. I’d never been psychic, but the future suddenly seemed a strange and lonely place to me, and I had morbid anticipations about what was yet to come.
Harry’s and my business had obviously not been brought to a satisfactory conclusion yet, from either of our points of view.
God help me, I meant it. His masculine magic had worked itself on me — Kim — yet again.
“Make love to me,” he urged dreamily
Part 7
By Kim Johns
To say I was surprised to see him would be a complete underestimation of my true feelings. After the previous evening’s revelations our normally convivial drinking session had died a death, become a total social disaster. Harry had become withdrawn and non-communicative, a fact that surprised Barry, who could only put it down to his disappointment at losing the bet, whereas of course both Jean and I knew that he was coming to terms with suffering the realisation that his evening love affair and all it had encompassed was nothing more than a mere sham.
Jean, in her own inimitable way had tried her best to boost the heavy atmosphere, as indeed had Barry, but nothing could revive the deep depression that had descended upon our normally vivacious group and we parted on an extremely low note, making no arrangements to meet up again as was usual on our weekends.
I silently nodded Harry in the direction of my bed, and he closed the door and sat down, looking contemplatively at the floor, avoiding my eyes. His face was set like stone, rigid, unreadable.
I maintained my silence. It was his move, I had decided. After a more than pregnant pause he spoke, still looking in any direction but mine.
“What kind of a perverted bastard are you?” The words came out quietly, but I felt I could detect an implied menace in his tone of voice. My heart was beating fast with a frightened anticipation as to the outcome of this meeting.
“What do you mean?” I tried to keep my voice from trembling, although it was, more from anger than fear.
“You know what I mean. Are you a faggot or something? Do you fancy blokes?” This time he did look at me, right in the eyes, and I was surprised by the intense expression of hatred in his face.
I laughed uncomfortably, finding the situation anything but humorous. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He scowled. “You bloody know what I mean, you shit. You gave me a blow job that night! And you enjoyed it!”
I became annoyed. “Enjoyed! I was almost sick over your shoes, you Wally!”
“Yeah? But you gave it a go, didn’t you, like the cheap tart you are! You must have fancied a mouthful! Throwing yourself at me like that!”
“Listen, Harry, it was your idea, yours and Barry’s, for me to be a girl for a night. It wasn’t my fault you didn’t recognise me, and it wasn’t my fault you fancied me; and let’s face it you did fancy me! Talk about me throwing myself at you! As if! You were coming on to me like there was no tomorrow, just like you always do when you’re trying to get into a girl’s pants!”
He appeared to be taken aback for a moment, shocked by my vehement retaliation. Then: - “Yeah, well I reckon you must spend a lot of time as a girly. You were too good at it. Do you spend all your evenings wearing a dress?” That was really close to the mark, given my recent experiences. “Sure you’re not really a woman?”
“Cheap shot, pal,” I threw back, surprised by my own escalating anger. “You know better than that. So Jean did a good job on me. Not only are you upset you lost the bet, but you’re peeved to think you couldn’t tell that the girl you fancied was really a bloke. Bad loser!”
He stood up suddenly, clenching his fists. “It’s not just that! Why couldn’t I tell it was you that night, I’ve known you long enough?” He flushed. “I did think you were a real girl! I fell in love with you that night!”
“Not with me you didn’t!” I snapped, also getting to my feet and pointing a finger at him. “Let’s get it straight, shall we? You fell for a girl called Kim! She doesn’t exist, Harry.”
Angrily he gave me a shove, causing me sit down again heavily on the bed. “Don’t give me that! She existed enough to snog me!” he stormed. “She existed enough to drag my prick out in the garden! She existed enough to swallow me when I came in her mouth!”
I swear his eyes were red, and his face, within inches of my own, was contorted with an uncontrollable passion as he railed at me.
I jumped up again, grabbed the front of his shirt and slammed him hard against the bedroom wall. I swear the room shook. “Bloody right!” I shouted. “She had a few drinks, and when you came on to her, like you always do when you fancy your chances with a girl, she lost control and gave you as good as she got! Harry, believe it or not she fancied you something rotten that night, too, and got carried away!”
He pulled away from me, staring at me as if I were a demented demon. “What’s this ‘she’ business?” he demanded. “It was you, you scumbag, with your fancy dancing and sexy dress. It was you, not ‘she’! And what do you mean, ‘she fancied you’? Are you saying you fancied me, you bent bastard? ”
He was spitting with fury as he assailed me with his angry outburst, and I was conscious of the fine droplets spattering my face.
I released him, suddenly tired, weary with the spasms of hatred that were draining me. I collapsed onto the bed and put my buzzing head in my hands. My brain ached in confusion as I tried to make sense of the mixed emotions that had overwhelmed me that fateful night.
“Harry, I’m sorry. I can’t explain that night,” I told him quietly, not only in a bid to rationalize but also to try to defuse an inflammable situation.
I considered carefully. “Jean dressed me up in girl’s clothes and made my face up, as we had agreed she would; she did a great job — too good a job - and nobody sussed me out; not even my two best mates who’ve known me most of my life! Believe me, I was waiting for her to tell me I’d never get away with it, but she didn’t, and you now know why.
“The trouble was, Harry, wearing those things made me feel sexy! Being accepted as a girl by the two of you made me feel girly! I don’t pretend to understand it! When you started coming on to me I’d had a couple of drinks. I was flattered. When I’d been dancing with Jean, I knew most of the blokes in the club were watching us — watching me - and it pleased me. I was a girl. I guess I reacted like a girl. That night, Kim had became real, came into being.”
His lip curled in disgust, his eyes were cold. “What are you trying to say?”
“Harry, in a way it wasn’t me there that night at all. Oh, it started off being me, but gradually Kim, the girl part of me, took over, and I became less in control of the situation. I don’t expect you to understand, because I don’t, really, but believe me, Kim had the hots for you that night!”
“But you and Kim are the same!” I could tell by the expression on his face that although he was trying to understand me, he was failing miserably. His exasperation over the whole affair was clearly evident. Perhaps it was me, unable to express how I truly felt that night. I don’t know.
“I knew you wouldn’t understand. It’s difficult. I don’t know that I can explain properly.” I paused.
“Listen, it’s me, John, here now, and I’m the bloke who’s known you for donkey’s years. You’re my best mate. We discuss everything. We talk about our girl-friends when we have them; we talk about life as we see it, our hopes and dreams for the future. Yes?” I desperately wanted him to understand. He was indeed my best friend. If I lost him over a stupid bet it would be like having my arm cut off, like losing a twin brother.
He nodded slowly, sitting next to me on the bed. I felt a faint ray of hope. At least he seemed to be trying to get his head round it.
“Harry, I would no more try to snog you now than fly in the air! We’re both guys, yeah?”
He edged away from me slightly, casting a wary look in my direction, but nodded again.
“But that Friday night something happened. Jean became Professor Higgins in My Fair Lady - she created a girl, conjured her up out of … my feminine side, I suppose, but create her she did. It’s not Jean’s fault, she was trying to help, but she did too good a job! If she had left a little flaw, something about me that would have told you and Barry who Kim was straight away, for goodness sake something that would have shown anybody straight away that I was a bloke in a dress, then nothing like this would have happened. But Jean did the best she could, and Kim turned up out of the blue.”
“And I fell for her like a ton of bricks!” He was still angry, but I felt he was trying to fathom out my complicated ramblings. His anger was tempered with an honest curiosity, an attempt to solve the convoluted problem.
“Well, Kim was a pretty girl,” I continued to try to explain. “I know that, I’m not blind or stupid, and of course we all know you’re a mug for a pretty face, don’t we?”
Harry looked up sharply to see if I was making fun of him; I wasn’t, and he realised it.
“And,” I carried on, “There was already a basic liking there, wasn’t there? We’ve always got on, that’s why we’re friends, and our compatibility was what Kim was constructed on. You liked her initially because you like me. It was just that she took over me, and I became her!”
“But to do what you did …” He gesticulated wildly.
“Harry, you’ll never understand. I’m not sure I do, fully. As Kim, I fell in love with you!”
“What?”
“I don’t pretend to know what girls really feel when they fancy someone, but believe me I think I got pretty close that night. Kim already liked you — she was John, basically, after all — but as she grew stronger, and pushed John — me — into the background, she fell for you hook, line and sinker!”
“Really?” Harry appeared to be a little warmer, to be thawing somewhat, perhaps mollified to an extent by my arguments.
“Truly,” I assured him. “And she took your ring in good faith, too. But of course, when I came back she vanished into the background.”
“I still can’t believe what you did, though. My best mate giving me a blow job.” He ran a hand through his already dishevelled hair, looking at me and shaking his head.
I smiled ruefully. “When I got home I went straight to the bathroom and threw up! That was me back again!”
Harry also half-smiled. “You…er…didn’t tell anyone about it, did you?” he asked, a little self-consciously.
I shook my head, vague visions of Kim and Jean girl-talking that one through, but I knew the secret was safe with Jean. She would never let on that she knew. “No,” I white-lied. “Did you mention it to Barry?”
“No, thank God. Can you imagine what he’d have said yesterday if I had told him?”
I eyed him cautiously. “So…what now?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Come on, mate,” I said, trying desperately to re-cement our relationship. “It’s a done deal. Water under the bridge. Only you and I will ever know what really happened.”
Harry smiled again, apparently relieved. I stuck my hand out. “Still friends?”
He slowly, a little hesitantly, reached out and took my hand in his. “Yeah, still friends, I guess. We’ve always said it would take more than a girl to split us up. I guess we’re more than a match for Kim. Just don’t try to kiss me, OK?”
“You got it!”
“Still,” he said sadly, “I suppose I’ll have to start looking around for another girl now. I really thought I’d found the one with Kim!”
“Tell me about it,” I said, and recounted my experience with Laura. “You talk about falling in love,” I concluded, “I fell heavy and deep for that girl! Only I could lose my heart to a lesbian!”
Harry laughed and put his arm around my shoulder, considered the action for a moment and then removed it. “Yeah, are we a couple of losers, or what?”
“You said it.”
There was a pause, something in the air then that weighed heavily between us.
“Still …” Harry murmured again.
“Still what?”
Harry avoided my eye, not speaking. There was something oddly familiar in his demeanour.
“Come on,” I urged, “Spit it out. What?”
“I just thought,” he said slowly. “It would’ve been nice if I could have said goodbye to Kim in person. You know, properly.”
I stared at him in disbelief. He had that same look on his face that my mother had had when she wanted me to be Kim again. I couldn’t quite believe it. What was it about the damned girl that people couldn’t seem to want to let her go?
“You have,” I said quickly. “She told you you’d meet again, and you did. You met me! Remember?”
He looked up from contemplating the floor. “That’s not quite what I meant,” he muttered. “Whatever you say, you and Kim are different. I know you, you’re my mate! I wanted to say goodbye to the girl I fell in love with!”
I stared at him again incredulously. What was wrong with him? After everything I’d tried to explain to him.
“A girl who doesn’t exist!” I told him angrily, although I knew that statement wasn’t strictly true. Kim had certainly existed that Friday night as I — and he - knew only too well. For most of that evening I had been the one who didn’t exist. Kim had been there, as large as life, as she had been on Wednesday evening, and indeed on the Thursday, when she was chatting at ease with my delighted mother.
Harry swallowed, and I swear his eyes had the beginnings of tears in them. “Don’t believe it,” he told me. “She exists for me.”
There were familiar feelings uneasily building up inside me as I looked at him, strange sensations tingling through me that I had no explanation for. My mind toyed with an idea that part of me immediately refused, but I couldn’t let it go. I didn’t want to turn my thoughts into realities, but there was a small, persuasive voice in my head that was insistent, a driving force that urged me into action. I had already, with my mother’s blessing, given in to a temptation I had been trying to drive underground, and I was now being assailed by desires that, until now, I would have worriedly dismissed as totally wrong.
Should I give in to them? Perhaps this was the way to kill the demon. One last time, a small voice whispered, and then it’s gone — she’s gone - for good. How weak we are when tempted by irresistible desire.
I made my decision.
“Wait here,” I said.
I went into my mother’s bedroom and for a moment just stared at the familiar box that sat on top of her wardrobe. Impulsively, with trembling hands, I lifted it down and opened it. As I looked again at the garments within, the miniature John and Kim on my shoulders were having another war of words with each other.
It was the work of seconds to discard John’s clothes and don Kim’s all-too-familiar trappings, this time the sexy underwear and dress she had worn that fateful Friday night, clothing that Harry would recognise and associate with the Kim he remembered. Slipping my stockinged feet into her shoes I stared into the mirror and applied some minimal make-up, finally securing and brushing the wig in a way I was becoming more than used to.
In moments, without any real conscious effort on my part, Kim had returned, smiling a little wryly (that was the John part of me) and a little mischievously (which was all her) at me from the mirror. I could literally feel her pushing John, who was protesting weakly, into the background. I resisted as best I could. I couldn’t afford to lose him completely. She twirled in front of the glass, feeling good about herself…
I returned slowly and quietly to my bedroom, and stood in the doorway. “Hello, Harry,” I said.
My friend slowly raised his head, and blinked. “Kim?”
I entered the room and sat next to him on the bed. Taking his hand in mine I said “John told me you wanted to say goodbye.”
He was speechless for a moment, mixed emotions flitting across his confused visage. I thought he was suddenly going to laugh in my face, that he had only mentioned saying his goodbyes to Kim personally to see if I would accept the challenge and dress up again, a ruse so that he could sneer at me, get his own back at me. But:-
“Yes,” he said, in a low voice.
Impulsively I leaned towards him and brushed the long hair away from his eyes. “I told you I had to go.”
He turned towards me, leaning close, and suddenly kissed me on the lips. An electric shock ran through me. I tingled all over, vaguely wondering why I hadn’t recoiled from him in disgust. Instead I instinctively moved closer to him and kissed him back, my hands resting lightly on his shoulders, revelling in the feel of his mouth on mine, the teasing touch of his tongue.
“Kim,” he whispered, enfolding me in his arms, kissing my lips, my cheeks, my brow, holding me close to him with an ardent passion.
I laughed awkwardly and gently pushed at his chest. There was still enough John in me to rebel against his misunderstanding. I had only wanted to give him the opportunity to say his goodbyes briefly to Kim.
Hadn’t I?
“Harry,” I protested weakly; I didn’t really want him to stop, but knew he ought to before things got out of hand once more. Unfortunately Kim wanted him, and she was beginning to take over again.
We swayed on the edge of the bed, then fell on top of it, and I was conscious again of his hands caressing my bosom, gently stroking me. He moved over on top of me, kissing me again and again.
A strange excitement welled up in me as I revelled in his attention.
An anticipatory fear spread through me as I tried mentally to distance myself from the proceedings.
I tried to get away from him.
I was again the lusty young female of Friday night, only too self-aware of my power over him and all men and desiring him passionately.
I was poor downtrodden John trying to halt this emotional situation from getting out of hand.
I was Kim, wanting all his concentration to be on me.
I was John, who wanted him to stop.
I was Kim, who wanted him to continue…
His hands were pulling at the hem of my dress, lifting it upwards; his hands were slipping up and over the smooth, silky mesh of my stockings under my dress, brushing against my naked thighs; his hands were seeking my panties and the feminine prize he imagined lay within.
I gently managed to pull his probing fingers away and placed the palm of my hand over his swollen crotch, rubbing gently. He moaned, eyes closed, and rolled over onto his back, breathing out a slow, contented sigh. Quietly, with minimal fuss I eased down his zip fly and took out his swollen member, stroking it between my forefinger and thumb.
“Kim,” he breathed, the word yet another soft sigh, and he half-turned towards me again. His hands sought and found my legs once more, smoothing his palms up my stockings until he found the exposed flesh of my upper thigh. He cupped my buttocks, hands caressing the silky material of my panties, before returning to his quest for Kim’s secret treasure.
I removed those roving hands once more, pushed him back down onto the bed and continued to masturbate him.
“Kim,” he murmured, “I love you.”
I leaned forward, allowing the long hair of the wig to hang down and tickle his cheeks. “I love you too,” I whispered in his ear. God help me, I meant it. His masculine magic had worked itself on me — Kim — yet again.
“Make love to me,” he urged dreamily, eyes still closed, in a world of his own.
I continued manipulating him. “I am,” I told him softly.
He shifted his body on the bed. “I mean properly,” he said, and suddenly plunged his hand between my legs, fast, urgently.
I slapped him away, almost falling to the floor, but managed to stand awkwardly as he swung round to a sitting position. He looked up at me, his eyes wide and staring, seeing nothing but his own wild imaginings.
“What’s the matter with you?” he said hoarsely. “You a fucking prick-teaser or what?”
He grabbed at me wildly and I stumbled backwards, worried now. He looked crazed, confused.
“Harry, what are you doing? It’s me, John!” Kim, the bitch, had retreated, leaving me to face the frenzied result of her sex-mad teasing.
He stood up fast and then grabbed me, both hands thrusting forward and gripping me tightly round the throat. His pupils were red pinpoints of light. He didn’t know me.
“Bitch,” he hissed venomously, “Think you can play around, do you?” One hand released me momentarily and he slapped me viciously around the face. My head spun as he continued to increase the pressure on my neck.
I pushed at him with weak, fluttering hands, but couldn’t budge him. Anger had given him extra strength.
“Harry, it’s me, John,” I croaked again, the constriction around my throat making it difficult to speak. I had difficulty breathing. In his madness, Harry was strangling me! Jesus, I thought wildly, am I going to die?
“You’re all right giving blow jobs in the dark, aren’t you, you whore?” he rasped angrily, “OK doing a hand job! But when it comes to the real thing, Kim Kong…”
His voice was faint, seeming to come from a long way away and I could feel myself blacking out as he slowly throttled me. With a supreme effort I pushed hard at him, hoping the edge of the bed would buckle his knees and force him to sit, giving me a bit of an advantage, but he resisted, his strength that of ten men, or so I imagined, and suddenly pushed back, harder.
I was conscious of a loud crunching sound and at the same time felt an excruciating pain at the back of my head; I dazedly realised I had collided with the bedroom wall. The world swam before me, there were two Harrys in front of me, and I was vaguely aware of myself sinking limply against him, my head lolling on his shoulder, my whole body sapped of strength or energy. My eyes closed and I felt myself drifting into unconsciousness. The pain in my throat eased.
Harry’s breathing was loud and heavy in my ear as I remotely felt myself being lowered, dazed and sick, to the bed. I felt more pain as the back of my head touched a pillow, and the world behind my closed eyelids was rotating rapidly.
I forced my eyes open, focussed and saw nothing but indistinct, blurred images; I blinked, focussed again and again those blurred pictures confronted me. In some dim recess of my mind I felt Harry’s hand sliding up my legs beneath my dress. He slowed as he found my suspender belt clips and chuckled, and then I felt him clutching fiercely at my panty-covered testicles.
The pain sharpened my mind and I clearly heard his confused grunt as he obviously realised that what he was looking for just wasn’t there.
“Bitch,” he mumbled again, and then swore, and I felt a blow to my cheek and another to my jaw, as he lost control.
I must have blacked out properly then, because when I came to I was lying on my front, face downward on the bed. I became vaguely aware that my dress was rucked up around my waist, and realised my panties were being pulled down my legs.
“Harry, what are you doing?” I think I said, although it may just have been in my mind. Whether he heard me or not I don’t know, because once more the world went dark…
I jerked into sudden consciousness as a spasm of pain pierced my body. Again, I think I yelled in agony, but as my Mother certainly never appeared to rescue me this may just have been my imagination. The pain was certainly real, excruciating, and I quickly fled from it into the netherworld once more.
I may have dreamed I was in a deep, dark, watery pit, for I can recall myself ascending through that darkness, slowly but deliberately, swimming upwards through the vast black void. I remember my eyes opening at the same time that I felt a deep and throbbing pain emanating from the centre of my body. I was looking at the clock on my bedside table, except that it was distorted and I was unable to decipher the time. There were two clocks, two tables, and they were spinning in front of my eyes.
Slowly both images merged, and I felt a confusion of pain both physical and mental. There was an ache of major proportions emanating from my backside, and I had a splitting headache that started from the back of my head and spread forward and down over my forehead. My throat was sore and my neck felt raw. My stomach revolted, and I knew I wanted to throw up.
I remembered fighting with Harry, but nothing more. Painfully, wrestling to pacify the sickness churning in my gut, I moved my head and looked in the opposite direction.
Harry lay on his back next to me, his eyes closed, gentle snores coming from his slightly open mouth from which a small dribble of saliva trickled.
“Harry?” I ventured, the very act of speech hurting my bruised and battered vocal chords.
He grunted, but did not move.
Slowly, and with an awful realisation, my memory sneaked up on me with a gradual, unhurried series of snapshots, until I recalled everything, every painful, horrific detail.
I sat up quickly in shock, sending further waves of pain through my head and body, and swung my legs delicately to the floor. In a vague, disembodied way I noticed my stockings were in shreds, and my panties lay discarded on the bedroom rug.
I reached forward and picked up the flimsy sliver of material, and my head swam with the painful effort. I paused, giving myself time to rehabilitate, then, using the bedside table to steady myself, I got shakily to my feet. I noticed the wig sitting in a corner of the room like a small, trapped animal. Stretching painfully, I leaned down and retrieved it.
With a final disgusted glance at Harry’s prone form I turned and made my way painfully to the bathroom, entered and locked the door.
A cursory examination with a flannel and towel showed blood and what I could only assume was semen leaking from my anus. Tears of pain, shame and anger trickled down my cheeks as I realised fully what had happened to me.
Tenderly I cleaned myself up as best I could, finally bundling the stained and bloody towels together and pushing them into a corner with my foot. I hugged the toilet for a full five minutes as my eyes discharged the misery of my sorry experience and my stomach expelled its contents in jerking, aching movements, until only fragments of stringy bile dangled from my retching lips.
Once things had settled a little I returned shakily to my mother’s room and changed out of Kim’s ruined clothes, becoming John again. But this was a different John, an abused and assaulted John, a John who would need to sit down at some time in the near future and review his whole philosophy on life.
Stuffing poor Kim’s attire haphazardly back into the box, I returned to my bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed where Harry still slept the sleep of the exhausted. I noticed his limp penis still peeking from his unzipped trousers, and wildly looked around the room for a knife, a pair of scissors, anything sharp. In a sudden fit of madness I found myself hating men, all men, and included myself in that hatred. All I saw as a potential weapon was a razor, and that was a safety razor. Had he known my thoughts Harry would have been thankful for small mercies.
My anger bubbled to the surface and I shook my erstwhile friend savagely.
He woke with a start, sitting up fast and straight and looking around him with staring eyes. “Kim?” he said, before finally focussing on me.
I sneered at him. “Kim’s gone, you bastard,” I told him in a hard voice.
He looked puzzled. “What do you mean?” he said, rubbing his eyes.
“You raped her, you shit,” I told him angrily.
“Raped?”
I stood up and looked at him with loathing. “I found her crying her eyes out in the bathroom. She was holding her panties in her hand, her stockings were ripped to pieces and her dress was ruined.”
Sanity returned to his face for a moment. “But you’re Kim,” he said. He looked puzzled.
“So you want to have it that you raped me? A bloke? And one of your best friends?”
“Raped? No, no, no.” He sat on the edge of the bed leaning his elbows on his knees and shaking his head, his long hair falling across his face as he appeared to struggle with a great emotion. “What’s going on?” he muttered to himself, looking around the room in stupefied wonder. “Kim,” he repeated.
“Kim’s out of your life,” I told him scathingly. “She loved you, Harry, but because you couldn’t wait! You destroyed her. She’ll have no more to do with you.”
“Wait a minute,” he said dazedly, trying to come to terms with what I was saying, “You are Kim. Kim is you. If you’re still here, so is she!”
“Let’s put it this way,” I told him, my voice cold, “I’ll have no compunction in telling anyone who asks that you raped Jean’s friend Kim. If you want to contradict me and put them right by saying you raped me, go ahead. I would be proud of neither story.”
“You wouldn’t do that,” he said, but there was doubt in his voice and eyes, and not a little fear. There was little doubt in my mind that he now realised, remembered, what had happened, and whether it was with intent or just the result of inflamed emotion there were no excuses for his actions.
My rage peaked. With one hand I grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him to his feet. With the other I punched him as hard as I could to the face. He lurched backwards, falling on the bed, holding his jaw.
“Shit, that hurt,” he mumbled indistinctly, as I shook my hand to ease the pain of the blow.
“Put that away,” I told him, nodding at his exposed penis. “You’re lucky I couldn’t find a sharp blade after talking to Kim about this.”
He eyed me strangely. “Talked to Kim? What is all this? Are you barmy or what?”
“You betrayed the trust of the girl who loved you,” I told him. “That’s something you’ll have to live with for the rest of your life.”
“What are you?” he muttered, “A fucking queer or something?”
I looked at him silently for a time, and he lowered his eyes.
“How can you, of all people, ask that question, after your actions here today?” I asked quietly.
He stood up, shamefaced, rearranging his shirt. “I’d better go.”
I stood away from the door.
He walked past me silently, watching me warily and then turned, as if to speak. One look at my face decided him. I heard his footsteps on the stairs. I heard the front door close. I shut my bedroom door behind him. That action, I realised in the light of later events, was a symbolic one. One door closes; another opens. I had a lot to learn.
I fell on my bed and cried silently into my pillow, cursing myself and what had become of my life, cursing the fates that had rolled their deceitful dice and caused havoc to my very existence, until I must have finally drifted off into a fitful, troubled sleep.
Part 8
By Kim Johns
Suffice it to say that Kim did not put in an appearance that day or the next. She — and I — were, I believe, in a state of some considerable shock at the unforeseen consequences of the visit by my erstwhile best friend.
Sunday crawled past, tortoise-like, and then another torturous week dragged slowly by, and my mother, and indeed my work colleagues, must have become extremely exasperated by my distracted mind, wondering what had got into me. I was silent and withdrawn for most of the time, exceptionally introverted, speaking only when spoken to and even then often not understanding what had been said to me and stumbling over the most inappropriate of responses.
So much so that my boss at work summoned me to his office towards the end of the week to enquire whether there was anything the matter, and if so, did I need any help? I made some sort of reply that appeared to satisfy him, and was released, suddenly thinking I really ought to make the effort to snap out of my doldrums. I realised I had been existing in a slightly different dimension, maybe even an alternative universe, to that occupied by my colleagues, who viewed me with concern from the safety of their ‘real’ world.
I was trying to come to terms with my situation, to assuage my burgeoning doubts over my heretofore exceedingly uneventful life. While I knew without a doubt that I still liked women, I became aware that I had started unconsciously appraising men in the street, wondering what it would be like to be a real female and have their attentions. This was a somewhat strange thought, for I couldn’t get Harry’s assault out of my mind, his masculine-orientated attack on someone he believed, at the time, to be female. Perhaps I was trying to convince myself that most men were decent and could control themselves. Could I? I wondered. Could Kim, my feminine side, for that matter?
I then began to think that I might be gay, and longing for a homosexual relationship, but that didn’t quite ring true for me, especially after Harry’s violent attack. It would take me a long time to come through the trauma of that ordeal, and I shuddered at the thought of any repetition of it. If I wanted a man at all, it was as a woman wants a man, I decided.
Alone at home, I would suddenly find myself flipping idly through the pages of my mother’s magazines in my spare moments, hypnotised by the fashion pages and the beauty tips, wondering how I would look in the various styles of clothing on display, and with the beauty treatments offered. Catching myself in the act, I would impatiently throw the periodicals to one side and make a great point of finding one of the macho men’s monthlies I used to hide beneath my mattress, hopefully well out of sight of my mother’s inquisitive gaze.
From the Monday evening Kim had reappeared, a little more sober and frightened by what life had done to her, more wary, more cautious, and I continued as a matter of course to spend my evenings as her — an act of necessity, I was discovering, rather than choice. She was indeed a changed person. It was as if Harry’s assault on me was indeed a physical rape on her, and she and I had become remote and isolated. My — our — mother’s gentle probing led nowhere. Both Kim and I were unreachable.
I would lie awake at night in bed until the early hours of the morning, pondering my predicament, puzzling over the complexities of the situation in which I had come to find myself, slowly assimilating all the small pieces of evidence that I hoped would eventually point me in the right direction for a lasting solution.
For I knew there had to be a solution, an end that would satisfy my mind, body and soul.
I don’t think I was actually aware of when I reached the point that the final conclusion dazzled me by its obvious clarity and simplicity; the moment just silently crept up on me when I was least expecting it, unaware, until I realised one evening what my mind and heart had been telling me all along.
I went to bed to think over the consequences of my decision.
I’d like to think that I didn’t sleep that night, also, but that wouldn’t strictly be true. I must have, because my dreams were disturbing, worrying, strange, confronting me with a future that loomed huge and frightening before me, unveiling a dark and twisting path, but one I knew I had to walk.
However, I do know I spent a large part of the night lying awake, staring at the shifting patterns of light reflected on the bedroom ceiling, my mind in turmoil, examining my feelings in the context of the last few weeks and all that had happened in that bizarre time.
I watched the weak beginnings of a new dawn spreading through my room, the apologetic sounds of the birds heralding a new day, and finally realised that I had had what sleep I would be capable of.
I dressed and went downstairs where my mother, always an early riser, was sitting with a cup of tea. She got up to pour one for me in spite of my protests to the contrary, and eventually we both settled, gazing at each other reflectively.
“You don’t look as if you slept much last night,” was her opening gambit.
I admitted it. “I had a lot on my mind,” I told her.
“I rather think you’ve had a lot on your mind for a while,” she commented cannily. “Can I help?”
Could she? “Maybe,” I admitted.
“Go for it,” she told me.
I paused, wondering where to start. It had to be at the beginning.
“This dressing up business,” I began.
“Ah.” There was a wealth of understanding in that one sound.
“I did it for the beer. I was drunk when it was suggested, that was all there was to it. And I thought Jean would laugh the whole thing into touch. I couldn’t believe it when she told me I could get away with it!”
“You made a lovely girl,” remarked my mother, smiling reminiscently.
“Sorry, mum, but you didn’t help, either, with all that sentiment about your new daughter!” I collected my thoughts. “That Friday night was an eye opener. I felt really great. I didn’t realise girls had so much fun!”
My mother smiled mirthlessly. “Yes,” she commented, “We’ve been there; I think we’ve accepted that Kim overstepped the mark that night. John certainly did!” She stressed the ‘John’ bit.
“But the Saturday! I really felt a genuine part of it! I was accepted by everyone, and I accepted them. They all spoke to me, they were all friendly, and I had a great night’s conversation and thoroughly enjoyed myself! When I go to parties with the guys, all we do is drink as much as possible and make comments about the girls!”
“Women do have minds,” commented my mother dryly.
I nodded in agreement. “But I realised that I was feeling things differently after those two nights,” I continued. “When we told Harry and Barry that I had done the thing they believed I would never have the bottle to do, they reacted as I would expect two blokes to react. Pissed off because it was going to cost them money. Jean was a lot more supportive.”
I paused before carrying on. “Of course, Harry was also really uptight about it because he hadn’t realised Kim was a guy!”
“And,” contributed my mother, less than helpfully, “It can’t have helped him to find out that his best friend — his best male friend, that is — had been coming on to him!”
“Come on, mum,” I protested, “He started it!”
My mother smiled again. “My dad’s bigger than your dad,” she said suggestively.
I nodded. “OK,” I agreed, “We were both to blame.”
Silence for a moment before I continued.
“One or two other things have happened since then that have given me cause for thought, made me wonder who I am and where I’m going in life.”
“And these are obviously the things that have been worrying you so much lately. Can you tell me what they are?”
“I’d rather not,” I said, flushing. “They’re things I’m not proud of, not at all happy that I did them, but they have certainly opened my eyes.”
“OK,” my mother encouraged.
“I’ve come to a decision,” I said, “A really big one, but I don’t know quite how you’ll take it. In fact, I don’t quite know how everyone will take it!”
“Does it affect me?”
“It will affect everybody,” I told her, “But I think you especially.”
“I’m intrigued.” Her tone was neutral, not begging the revelation, but not quite discouraging it, either.
“Mum, you saw me the first night Kim appeared on the scene, and while I’m putting no blame in anyone’s lap, your positive reaction was one of the things that encouraged me to continue with the bet. You know I spent a couple of evenings with you, as her, getting ready for my big role.
“Then on that Friday and Saturday night I was Kim. As I’ve already said, everybody treated me differently, and I felt more accepted as her, more comfortable with my life, than I have ever felt as a boy. I’ve always felt a bit of a misfit, having to conform to the strong, masculine image blokes seem to think is expected of them. My sensitive side has only really been accepted because I’m considered artistic, and artists are always slightly different to everybody else.”
My mother nodded, although I could see the little line between her eyes that told me she was puzzled, wondering where I was going with this.
“It’s only been a few weeks, but I’ve spent a fair number of evenings here with you as your daughter, a few by choice but a lot because I’ve felt the need, the urgent necessity, to be Kim. I’ve enjoyed it, and I know you have. It’s opened my eyes, I know. Although I think John is a fairly decent sort of bloke, he is a bloke, and I don’t think I’m suited to be him anymore. I don’t like what he stands for now, the masculine viewpoint. He is a lie, in my terms. I have realised that, deep down, I am really like Kim. I want to be Kim. I am Kim!”
“I don’t understand,” my mother frowned. “You are John. I think John is a very decent ‘bloke,’ a great guy in fact, although I would have to admit to a slight bias on that score! And he is not a lie. I repeat, you are John. It’s a fact of life.”
“When I say a lie,” I said slowly, but thinking fast, “I mean that ‘fact of life’ that you’re so glib about! All my thinking tells me that the facts have been twisted. I’ve been playing at being John. I think, from the day I was born, that I should have been Kim!”
“Two things,” said my mother gently, reaching out and taking both my hands in hers, “Kim doesn’t exist, and if she did, Kim is a girl.”
“She does exist,” I burst out excitedly. “She was hidden deep inside me, but has always been there. It just took a stupid bet and the help of a good friend to bring her out of hiding. Oh, she had her moments, nobody’s perfect, but she is more of a truth than John has ever been.”
“John,” my mother said quietly, still keeping hold of my hands, “Just because you like wearing female clothing doesn’t mean you should have been born a girl.”
I shook my head impatiently. “Don’t you think I haven’t argued all this with myself? The clothes — yes, they made me feel special, but they also felt ‘right’ — the clothes were just physical pointers. They encouraged the real me — Kim, for want of a better name — to emerge from the cocoon that for nearly eighteen years people have referred to as ‘John’!”
“Do you hear what you are saying?” asked my mother. “Do you know what you are implying?” She was gripping me so tightly it was painful.
I swallowed hard, and told her without pausing, “I am saying that I want to be your daughter. Really be your daughter. Not just mentally, the way I have come to be over the last few weeks, but physically as well. I realise that Kim has been trying, unknown to me or anybody, to escape from John’s body all her life!”
My mother sighed, and I saw the glimmer of unshed tears brimming up from beneath her eyelids. “And how do you propose to achieve this aim?”
Again I didn’t pause. I knew if I faltered in my argument this opportunity to be open and frank about my feelings, wants and desires might be lost forever. I had done my research.
“I know it can be done. I’ve read about operations that are available for people in my predicament. There is medical treatment that can be had.”
“And do I have any say in this?”
“Mum, I’m your unhappy son. I want to be your happy daughter. But I won’t do anything you really don’t want me to do.”
“I can only tell you that you need to think seriously about this,” my mother counselled. “I wouldn’t stand in your way if it’s what you really have to do. Yes, I enjoyed seeing you as my daughter, but what you are suggesting goes a lot deeper than that. You’re talking about the whole of the rest of your life that’s stretching before you. Whatever choice you make now, you will be spending your life with that decision, and living with the varied opinions other people — including your friends and family — will form of you.”
“I’ve thought all night, every night, for longer than you know, Mum. I’ve been in an agony of indecision for the last week. I know it needs more than that before I make a final decision. I will give it even more thought. But I feel I know what the answer will be, and I wanted to know your opinion.”
“John,” she said simply, “You are my…child. All I’ve ever wanted is your happiness. If this is to be your choice, I will support you in it.”
At those words, I felt the overwhelming experiences of the last few weeks overload in my poor, befuddled brain. A tear leaked from one eye and rolled down my cheek, to be joined by its twin from my other. My chest felt as if my heart wanted to burst through my rib cage, and suddenly I burst into tears, a real, genuine and emotional flood.
I clung to my mother in a way I had not done since childhood, and felt her supportive arms holding me closely, tightly, comfortingly. She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. Just being there was enough.
I finally pulled away and sat back, mentally and physically exhausted, but with a sense of happiness within me. At last everything was out in the open and I had told my mother honestly my feelings. She hadn’t poured scorn on me, derided me for being misguided and foolish, and ordered me brusquely to ‘stop this nonsense.’
Now, I knew, the real thinking would start.
I phoned Jean a little later and asked whether she could meet me for lunch. She sounded surprised, but happily agreed, only stating that her time would be limited as she was meeting Barry that afternoon.
We met in a fairly out-of-the-way local pub that all of us frequented from time to time, and I told her all that had occurred that morning between my mother and me, pulling no punches, exactly as it had happened. She stared at me, concern written over her face. Thank you God, I prayed silently, the girl didn’t laugh at me.
“Are you sure this is what you want to do?” she queried, laying a gentle hand on my forearm.
I nodded, looking down at her varnished nails.
“Pretty sure,” I said. “I will need to give it a lot more thought, talk to a lot of professional people about it, but basically I think I know what my decision’s going to be.”
Jean sipped her drink and then played devil’s advocate. “But it’s based on your dressing up as a girl over two nights.”
I considered a little before replying. Then: “Those two nights consolidated and brought to a head feelings and emotions I suddenly realised I had had for most of my life. I’ve always felt a bit different to other guys…”
I noticed Jean’s thoughtful nod.
“…But so much happened during those nights to make me want to re-evaluate my life. Dressed as I was, in the situations I was in, I realised that as Kim I felt right, albeit that I may have been acting a bit over the top, and that realisation coloured my thoughts and deeds. I’m not saying everything was perfect, just that it made me feel that as a boy I had been playing a part all my life, pretending to be someone I wasn’t.”
She smiled. “You were certainly convincing as a girl. Now I come to think about it, once you were dressed you walked, talked, even thought the same way I did about everything. Well, most things. As you say, it was almost as if you had been born a girl and spent your whole life pretending to be a boy.”
I nodded, happy to have her agreement. “So you don’t think I’m being stupid, then?”
“John, I can’t tell you whether what you want to do is going to be right or wrong for you. All I can do is agree with your mother. If it’s going to make you happy for the rest of your life, it can’t be bad.”
“And if I do go for it, how do you think Harry and Barry will react?”
She smiled. “Barry comes across as a straight-laced frump a lot of the time, but I think you’d be surprised. He’s very open-minded about things.”
“And Harry?”
“From what you’ve told me, I wouldn’t count on Harry too much. Unfortunately he fell for you as Kim, and finding out you’ve fallen for another boy doesn’t endear you to that person. Even if you finally become Kim properly, I think you’ll have problems with Harry.”
“But he’s my best friend,” I objected, although visions of that fateful Saturday morning flashed through my brain. That memory would stay sealed in my mind — I hadn’t told my mother, or Jean. I guessed it might stay a secret even on my death bed. I hadn’t heard from Harry since, and had not contacted him myself. I guess my subconscious knew the truth — relations between Harry and me would never be the same again.
“But he can’t live your life for you,” she pointed out. “Only you can do that. Sometimes you have to give something up to move forward positively.”
“And what about you? What will you think?”
“John, you know I’ve always liked you. If Barry hadn’t come on the scene, who knows how we might have ended up? But he did, and that’s a done deal. I like you as John, but I also liked Kim, even though she started out to be a bit of a tart! She obviously has the same qualities that endeared you to me, but the bonus was that, being a ‘girl,’ I could talk about things with her that I would never have dreamed of talking about with you!”
“Even though you knew I wasn’t really a girl, just pretending?”
“That didn’t seem to matter once you were Kim. It was as if you had actually transformed completely into a female person. There was no deception. I accepted you for who you really were.”
“Don’t marry Barry,” I told her impulsively. “Marry me, and I’ll give up the whole idea!”
She smiled again. “But I don’t love you, John. Well, I do, as a friend, but it’s Barry I want. But thanks anyway.”
And so the die was cast. The following years were going to be full for me.
I made my decision, and it entailed numerous visits to my family doctor, many examinations by various consultants and other specialists who dealt with both the physical and mental well-being of their patients, many tests also both physical and mental, and finally the commencement of regular hormone treatment to feminize me once everyone was satisfied that my desire was not just a twenty-four hour fantasy.
Additionally, before I could count on an operation to complete the process I had already caused to become under way, I was told I would have to live as a female, night and day, for two years, undergoing constant physical and psychiatric assessment all the while I did so.
This raised other important issues. I had to give up my job, where everyone had known me as a boy, and begin attending interviews as Kim for other work. No one, at any time during these appointments, seemed to realise that I was not the girl I purported to be — apart from one.
The advertisement for the job had intrigued me; the work was pretty much what I had been doing in my previous employment, working in a publishing company doing basic administration work while being trained up for “bigger and better” things. It seemed tailor-made for me, in every way a continuation of the work I had been doing before Kim came along.
I submitted my application, held my breath and crossed all my fingers and toes. Seemingly as if by magic the following week I received an invitation for interview! This seemed too good to be true, but I’ve always thought it wise never to look a gift horse in the mouth; besides, I still had a long way to go yet.
I discussed strategy with my mother — that is, how to make a good impression at first sight. Like most things, I was finding the female answer to most problems was a shopping trip!
“It’s a publishing house,” said my mother. “You need to show them your serious side. I think you won’t go far wrong if you buy a neat little suit.”
“I didn’t wear a suit in my last job,” I objected.
“No, true, but things are slightly different for women,” advised mum. “You’re going to have to make twice the impression a man makes to get even the slightest notice taken of you and your abilities.”
“They jumped at my application, though,” I said. “They replied in seven days, and with an interview offer. Surely that’s not bad?”
“Unusual, but probably based on your qualifications.” I’d never been a brain-box, but I tended to excel in what I was naturally good at (that was the lazy part of me!), and I had ended up quite pleased with my examination results. I know my previous boss had been reasonably impressed, anyway.
“OK.” I gave in. I rarely won in an argument with my mother.
We decided a day trip to London would be in order, and I dressed in the most comfortable clothes I had, knowing we would be on our feet most of the time. I wore a white cotton bra into which the chicken fillets were placed, my hormone treatments having not yet kicked in with feminine attributes; matching panties and a pair of black tights; and a pair of slim-line dark blue denim jeans with a maroon crop top. Over this I wore a grey cable-knit woollen coat, and on my feet were a comfortable pair of trainers. My hair, which was growing longer and more lustrous now and didn’t need the addition of a wig any more, had been cut in a short bob-style that suited my face. Minimal make-up completed the picture.
“Wow,” commented my mother, “Is that dressing down?”
“Why?”
“You look as if you’ve just stepped out of the pages of one of my beauty magazines!”
“Yeah, and the rest,” I commented sarcastically, and in a most unladylike manner made a rude raspberry sound through pursed lips.
Mum shrugged her shoulders and steered me in front of the long mirror. “Look again.”
I put my head on one side and stared. How did I manage to do this with so little effort? She was right. Even trying to opt for comfort and a low-key look, I had managed to emerge a fashion babe once more. I smiled in a satisfied way, and felt my boy bits twitching in appreciation. With a sigh I shrugged my shoulders. In a couple of years that particular sensation shouldn’t be bothering me any more!
We hit so many clothes shops in the Big City that were so crowded with female shoppers it was no surprise to me that they all made a profit, and we weren’t just shopping for a suit for me. There were shoes, tops and skirts to be tried on and purchased, and of course plenty of underwear to be obtained, not to mention make-up! And it wasn’t just for me, either; my mother wasn’t going to miss out on a rare trip to London, and she indulged in credit card therapy as if it was going out of fashion!
Apart from a few saucy lingerie purchases I ended up with mostly sensible items, fairly sober tops, skirts and dresses, and a great little grey pin-striped suit with a pencil skirt that almost any of my tops would complement. I also treated myself to a couple of pairs of low-heeled dark shoes, purely for work.
All this sounds as if I knew I had the forthcoming interview so cut and dried that a job offer would be inevitable, but that was far from the truth; I was really building up a bank of clothes that would do me for any other interviews I might land, or do me for any job vacancy I might be asked to fill.
We both returned home that evening totally exhausted, and soothed our aching limbs with copious amounts of alcohol.
The day of the interview loomed large. I dressed carefully, wanting again to be comfortable, but also to have confidence. I chose a matching set of pink silk bra and panties with flesh-coloured tights, and a very light pink silk blouse that went really well with my new suit. I knew the panties were supportive enough to keep my lower bits and pieces securely hidden for the duration without causing me any slight pain or distress. My hair was still in the same short bob-style, which suited me, but I had gone to town, though not over the top, with my make-up. My nails had a natural varnish which gave them an attractive sheen.
Mum gave a few tugs to my clothing before stepping back in admiration. “Go knock ‘em dead!” she told me.
I grinned. “That’ll get me a prison sentence, not a job,” I quipped, feeling the nervous twitching of my stomach.
We kissed, and I left hurriedly, knowing the more I lingered the less likely I was to want to go through with it.
The building housing the publishing company was one of several hidden away in a small mews, with black-painted iron railings guarding the small drop to the windowed lower floor. Three concrete steps led up to the entrance door which was huge and also painted black. The railings followed the steps up to the door on each side.
With some trepidation I pushed open the unlocked door and entered a small foyer. Through glass doors ahead of me I spied a large mahogany desk at which sat a girl of about nineteen or twenty, busy with paperwork. At the sound of my entrance she looked up, smiled brightly and indicated that I should come through.
I gave her my name and she consulted a list, before smiling at me again. “Interview with Miss Tweedie,” she said. “I’ll tell her you’re here.”
A brief, low-voiced telephone call followed, and she then stood up. “If you’ll follow me,” she said.
We walked along a narrow hallway. She glanced at me again. “I love your suit,” she told me. “Where did you pick it up?”
Feeling some of my nervousness abating I told her, and we chatted idly for a few moments before stopping in front of another wooden door.
“Don’t worry about Miss Tweedie,” the girl told me, “She’s a sweetie really. Looks terrifying, but her bark’s worse than her bite!”
She knocked at the door, and at the muffled response opened it and stood to one side to let me pass. She winked. “Good luck,” she whispered.
It was a large room, so large that I wondered how it managed to fit inside the small building I had entered. Apart from two large double-bayed windows in the wall ahead of me, it was fitted with bookshelves from floor to ceiling, and all the shelves were bursting with books.
Another mahogany desk stood solidly in front of the windows, and behind it sat a woman who must have been about the same age as my mother. As I approached she stood up and indicated a chair in front of the desk.
“Do have a seat,” she said.
She was tall for a woman, and very thin. Her face appeared stern, her lips thin and tightly closed except when she spoke. She had a slightly hooked nose, on which perched a pair of almost invisible pince-nez, attached to a silver chain that hung about her neck. Her eyes were a very light blue, cold looking. She had blue-rinsed hair permed tightly to her head.
I sat as indicated, and she followed suit, picking up what I believed to be my application form.
“I’m impressed with your qualifications,” she began, immediately putting me at my ease, “But a little surprised that this is your first job. You left your last educational establishment over a year ago.”
The statement was a question, and again I experienced discomfort. I hadn’t revealed my previous employment as an enquiry wouldn’t have revealed any information under my new name.
“I’ve been ill for some time,” I lied.
“Yes,” she commented dryly, “A year’s illness can surely be no joke. One hopes it was nothing contagious. And are you better now?”
“At the moment, thanks,” I told her, “But I’m still under the doctor, and there’s a possibility I might have to have an operation either this year or next.” Give her edited information, I thought, and then when the time came she would be prepared. If I got the job, I amended.
As if to echo my thoughts, “Why should I employ you with a history of sickness, and the possibility of losing you during the rehabilitation period of an operation?” Her voice was cold, her tone sharp, and I swallowed convulsively. She seemed to be watching me like a hawk.
I pulled the hem of my skirt forward a little, and raised my head defiantly. “I thought being honest about it was only fair,” I said. “I can only say that, should I be lucky enough to get this job, I will give it one-hundred-and-ten per-cent effort so as not to let you down.”
“Pretty words,” she grunted, peering at the form again, “And easily spoken. What do you know about our business?”
I had to admit that, although I had tried to obtain information about the company, the only results I had come up with were that they seemed to have a large number of female writers. However, my last job had given me a lot of insight into what went on in publishing houses, and I sprinkled my response with snippets of experience, without actually admitting that I had worked in the business previously.
She nodded, apparently approvingly. “We specialise in women writers,” she told me. “Also, our employees are predominantly women, especially in this building, which houses the administration and editorial offices.”
I nodded, for want of something to say. She looked at me sharply. “You have no objection to working in a single gender environment?”
This time I shook my head. “No, ma’am,” I said.
She continued to interview me for about half-an-hour, all mundane questions relating mostly to my family, my leisure hobbies, very little about the job itself I later realised.
Finally, “Is there anything you want to ask me?” she offered.
I paused, thinking. “No, thanks,” I said, “I don’t think so.”
“And is there anything else you would like to tell me?”
I shook my head again. I didn’t think so.
She gave me a strange look. “In this firm we pride ourselves on being honest and open with each other,” she said curtly. “Are you very sure you have nothing else to tell me?”
That look penetrated to the depths of my soul, causing untold anxiety to shiver down my spine. What could she mean? Surely she hadn’t realised..?
As she continued looking steadily at me with those cold, penetrating eyes, a conflict of thoughts whirled through my brain. What did she know? Did she know anything? A battle was fought within me, until I made a decision. If she were to employ me and find out later my deception, I could lose everything I was fighting for here.
I told her everything.
She sat back in her chair, watching me intently as I let loose the secrets of my real self, silent, until I had talked myself dry. Then she leaned forward.
“So, in fact, you have almost a year’s experience in a job of this type?” she said in what I took to be an accusatory tone.
I felt myself flushing. “Yes,” I admitted.
A smile suddenly transformed her face. “Excellent,” she exclaimed.
I blinked.
“And your anticipated operation is for what purpose?”
“To complete the process,” I said delicately.
She smiled again. “I think, miss,” she said, “That you will fit into our little company quite nicely.”
My jaw dropped in astonishment. “What?” I said, inelegantly.
“I’ll send you a letter confirming my offer of a post with us. May I take it that you would be interested in accepting that offer?”
“Er…yes…yes please,” I stammered.
“Good.” She stood up, and I followed suit. “And when do you think you would be able to start with us?”
“Er…whenever you want me,” I mumbled.
“May I also compliment you on your choice of suit?” she asked. “You look extremely pretty, in a business-like sort of way. If your work ethos is as strong as your appearance, you will do very nicely.”
“So…you don’t mind about..?” I wanted to get her stance on this quite clear in my head.
“Your life choice? No. You will find yourself working with one or two kindred spirits after a while. In fact…” and her eyes actually twinkled, “I myself understand exactly what you are going through at the moment.”
I gaped. Was it possible that this steely-eyed spinster was once..?
She nodded, reading my mind, and shook my hand. “Goodbye, dear,” she said. “I look forward to your commencing work with us.”
The door closed behind me, and I wandered back down the hall to the receptionist in a shocked daze.
“How’d it go?” she asked.
I looked carefully at her trim figure, her pert breasts and rounded hips. Was it possible that she..? I just didn’t know.
She looked at me sympathetically. “No joy, then?”
“Oh.” I jerked back to this world, and shook my head, then nodded. “No, I mean yes,” I gabbled. “She’s offered me the job.”
The odd look she had given me changed to a beaming smile. “Oh, good. You’ll like it here, it’s very friendly. Perhaps, when you do start, we can have lunch sometime?”
I nodded. In earlier times I would have been lusting after her company with an evil masculine intent. Now, I knew lunch with her would be a fun thing, a good girly gossip thing.
I suddenly felt happier than I had for a long time. Were things suddenly going to go right for me?
Part 9
By Kim Johns
My more distant relations were quite shocked by my unexpected information and viewed my decision as decidedly weird, if not a sign of mental incompetence, and avoided us for months, which hurt me deeply, because while I could accept that they might be unsure about me and my motives, my mother had done nothing to warrant such shabby treatment.
However, as my ‘development’ progressed, and the regular quick visits I determinedly made to them as Kim showed that I was far from turning into Frankenstein’s monster, little by little they became accustomed to the idea, if not entirely happy about it, until the status quo was eventually re-established.
Harry and I were now virtually strangers. The one or two half-hearted Friday night pub sessions with the four of us before I began permanently to dress and live as Kim had been sadly restrained affairs, and I certainly felt that what had happened between the two of us had not only strained our relationship to breaking point but burst it asunder. It was now an unspoken agreement — either Harry, Barry and Jean or me, Barry and Jean. No more the four together. No more the two of us.
Now the only times I ran into him were at parties with plenty of others present, and of course I was by then Kim full-time. He always avoided me like the plague after an initial non-verbal acknowledgement and eye-avoidance, and I can only suppose that he couldn’t take being confronted by the physical presence of his erstwhile girl-friend again.
I saw a lot of Jean, as I say we became ‘best’ friends and constant shopping companions, and with Barry we enjoyed many outings. Jean had been right. Barry’s attitude to me didn’t really change, other than that he would flirt outrageously with me in front of his fiancé, causing me to give him as good as he gave and Jean to protest to both of us in good-humoured annoyance.
Some six months into my transition, when I was firmly committed to my new life and permanent appearance as a female, Jean phoned me, and there was excitement in her voice.
“Can we meet?” she asked.
“Now?” I was at work; it was Friday; I really didn’t want to cause problems in my new found employment by suddenly vanishing with no good reason.
“Tomorrow will do. Fancy a shopping trip?”
There was more than retail therapy in her voice, but I didn’t pursue the reasoning behind her request. We arranged to meet at our usual spot, a popular coffee bar in town.
The next day, casually dressed in a short denim skirt and light blue long-sleeved cotton top, black hold-ups and low-heeled shoes (anything over two inch heels murdered my feet when out doing serious shopping), I secured a table for two and awaited the arrival of my friend.
She bustled in, only five minutes behind time, a broad grin on her face, settled into the chair opposite me and put her handbag in front of her on the table-top.
“You’ll never guess,” she began, her voice bubbly with glee.
I smiled at the girl fondly. It was true. She had become my best friend, and I had always loved her. “I won’t try, then,” I told her. “What’s up?”
I noticed her hands twisting nervously with excitement, but that was all, blind idiot that I am.
“Can’t you see?” She was pushing her left hand at me, a stabbing motion.
I blinked. Nice hand. Nails with natural polish. Long, slender fingers, piano-player’s fingers except that she didn’t. Play the piano, I mean. Diamond cluster ring on third finger of left hand; didn’t remember seeing that before…
I blinked and looked at the ring again, then up at her gleeful face. “You mean..?”
She nodded, grinning. “Night before last. Barry asked me to marry him! We’re officially engaged!”
I took her hand in mine and examined the ring more carefully. It was truly magnificent, and I leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.
“Congratulations!” I said, and meant it. Was there just a smidgeon of jealousy there? Probably, but I meant what I said with all my heart. “I know you’ll be very happy,” I told her. “Wedding?”
“Oh, a year or so yet,” she said. “We’ve got to save! Anyway, party first!”
“Party?”
“We’re having an official engagement party in a couple of weeks. You’re invited, of course!”
“Keep me away,” I laughed.
So saying, we hit the shops, and in the light of Jeannie’s good news we hit them with a vengeance!
The conclusion of any shopping trip was always another excuse for a couple of drinks, and after a lengthy and moderately expensive expedition Jean and I stopped off in a pub for lunch, liquor, and girly gossip, at which I was beginning to find I excelled.
Having thoroughly exhausted our conversation, we collected our bits and pieces and left the establishment, pausing outside to say our goodbyes.
“Congrats again,” I told her. “Let me know when the party is. I’ll definitely be there!”
She nodded, turned away, and then suddenly turned back.
“Oh, Kim, before you go! I bumped into a couple of old friends of yours recently!”
I was intrigued. “Who’s that?”
“Harry, for one.”
“Ah,” I said cautiously.
“We hadn’t seen him for ages, although I know Barry talks to him on the phone fairly regularly. What did happen between you two?” Jean asked curiously. It was, as I’ve said, the one thing I’d never shared with her. “You two were inseparable all the years I knew you, and then suddenly there was this strange rift, and now you never see each other!”
I hesitated. Much as I looked on Jean as a person who helped cleanse the confessional soul, this was one matter that would stay locked within me. “Life, I guess,” and I shrugged non-commitally.
She looked at me shrewdly. “This all happened when Kim — you - first came on the scene,” she hazarded. “I suppose I’m not really surprised at your breaking up under the circumstances, but I have a feeling it goes a lot deeper than that.” The last statement was more of an unemphasised question. No fool, Jean.
“Do you and Barry still see him?”
“Yes, now and then, and as you know at the odd party, but as I said, not for some time now. Your name — names — John and Kim — come up occasionally, but he never comments about either of you.”
I shrugged, definitely feeling I had a split personality. I suppose I had, come to think of it! “Jean, I love you like a sister, but this is something Harry’s going to have to tell you himself, if he ever does. Some things maybe have to remain closed.”
She paused, a little embarrassed. “He will be invited to the engagement party, you know.”
I think I had, subconsciously, realised that.
“Not your problem,” I said. “I can handle it if he can.” I felt my eyes misting up as I remembered that fateful Saturday.
She must have seen the pain in my eyes. She kissed me gently on the cheek. “I love you to bits, Kim,” she said. “I’ll always be here if you want me.”
She made to leave. I put a restraining hand on her arm.
“You said ‘friends’?” I queried.
“Oh, yes, sorry! I nearly forgot! Guess who else I saw the other day?”
I eyed her patiently. “I thought you were going to tell me, not play guessing games.”
She laughed. “You old sourpuss! Laura!”
“Who?” But I knew, I was just playing for time. Jean knew me too well, however.
“You know who,” she said.
Laura, I thought. Life was full of odd quirks. If the cards had been dealt differently, who knew where she and I might have been now?
“How is she?”
“See! You do care! She’s fine, full of beans. She met an air hostess a little while ago, and has just moved into a flat with her down Gatwick way.”
I was relieved. The guilt I had felt over the way I had lied to her, deceived her, and then ignored her still lay heavily on me. Call me an old softy if you must, but I don’t like hurting people.
“So she’s happy now?”
“She seems incredibly happy. She did ask after you.”
“Has she still got that doll of me that she sticks pins in?”
Jean giggled. “Don’t be silly. No, it was a genuine enquiry. I think she still has fond memories of you, regardless of what happened.”
“She must be a saint, then”
“Laura never has been one to hold grudges. I know she liked you, lots, but she’s moved on.”
“I hope she’ll be happy,” I said genuinely, feeling strange prickings at the back of my eyes. Behave yourself, I said sternly to myself.
“I’ll pass on your regards when I see her.”
“Will she be going..?”
“To the party?” The girl finished. “I’ll be honest, I will invite her, as you know we go back years, but she was talking about going abroad for an extended holiday when we met. I don’t think she’ll be in the country.”
I wasn’t sure whether that news made me pleased or upset.
“Did you ever tell her..?”
“That you weren’t quite what she thought? Of course not.” She checked her bags. “Got to go, sorry.”
“I’ll phone you.”
“’Bye, Kim!” She gave a quick wave and went on her way, leaving me to dab briefly at my eyes with my handkerchief.
I was happy for Jean, and happy with the way my life seemed to be progressing, and rightly or wrongly as the days slipped by with no hint of gloom on the horizon began feeling extremely satisfied with my existence.
Satisfaction, however, depends on your viewpoint, and I was reminded only too forcibly of the vulnerability of the path I had chosen one dusky late Autumnal evening as I hurried home from work.
From the train station a long road, paralleling the railway tracks, led towards our modest house. Near the end of the road lies a large multi-storey car park, forcing two choices. You either have to follow the road around it, or cut through the car park itself.
My favoured choice was always to cut through, despite the gloomy aspect of the place. Whilst fairly modern, it had gone the way of most utilities run by a local authority with big ideas and no money. The walls, especially in the lower areas, were damp with dripping condensation, and what lights there were that had survived the badly-aimed missiles of roving drunken vandals were dim or dead.
As a male, I had had no problem with taking this somewhat unsavoury but more direct route home, and indeed had never found cause for concern. Tonight was to be different.
A shiver slid over my body as I entered the badly-lit and shadow-strewn ground level of the building. A few cars still sat silently in white-painted bays, and the eerie quiet of the place was broken only by the echoing drips of water running down the rust-stained concrete walls.
The tapping of my low-heeled shoes interrupted the deathly hush that pervaded this motor mausoleum, sending further echoes dancing around the walls and into the most distant corners.
I felt uneasy, and that disquiet was not helped by subtle, almost silent scuffling noises that reached my ears as I walked. Was it my imagination, fuelled by the echoes of my footsteps? My stomach became taut with a nameless fear, and whilst I looked firmly straight ahead, my eyes were searching every nook and cranny of the building for the slightest sign of movement.
I breathed an inaudible sigh of relief as the exit came into view, only to have it knocked sharply from my mouth in a cry of surprise and pain as I was suddenly pushed heavily against one of the angular supporting pillars.
I turned as I hit the concrete column, and found I was facing a large, unshaven youth of about my own age. He was leering at me, one hand in the pocket of his greasy leather jacket. I imagined that hand fondling a hidden knife, and felt sick with an unknown fear.
Out of the corner of my eyes, as I faced this alarming confrontation, I glimpsed two more lads, one to my left and one to my right, effectively cutting off any chance of escape. My handbag lay a few feet away on the floor, where I had dropped it as I hit the pillar.
“Well, well, well,” said my captor, looking me up and down with a glance that I was becoming all too familiar with in my new life. It was the masculine “undressing with the eyes” look, and I encountered it every day, in the most unexpected places, and from the most unlikely men.
I swallowed hard but stayed silent, feeling the uncomfortable dribble of urine soaking into my panties.
“What’s a babe like you doing here?” the guy asked, licking his lips and leering at me.
I endeavoured to speak low and evenly, trying not to antagonise him. “A cut through,” I managed to say.
“Yeah? Live round here, do you?” As he spoke his brow furrowed and he looked at me more closely. “Know you, don’t I?” He asked brusquely.
I reluctantly raised my lowered eyes. Oh shit! I did indeed know this boy, although I couldn’t for the life of me remember his name. We had been at the same secondary school when I was a boy (!), and even then he had been a troublemaker. We had never mixed, and fortunately the little group I had been with, while certainly not looking for bother, had presented a strong enough combined front for this guy and his cronies to avoid picking on us.
“School,” I managed to admit, with a strained gasp, nodding.
“What’s your name?”
Of course, had he remembered my name, it would have been as John. I could hardly say that, with my altered appearance. I stammered out my new, adopted, title.
“Kim?” He rolled the name around his mouth as if savouring it. “Don’t remember the name,” he said finally, “But I recognise you. Babe like you’d be hard to forget.” He smiled; at least, it was an attempt at a smile. His two cronies chuckled. My panties, whilst not yet soaking, were getting damper by the minute with a fearful anticipation.
Looking at me a little more closely he frowned. “Did you have a brother there?”
Had he recognised in my features the boy John? My skin crawled with the fear of his unravelling the truth. What would he and his mates do if they realised the girl they had intercepted was in reality male? My groin ached with fear as a feeling of deep humiliation began to creep over my body.
Silently I shook my head. I felt truth, albeit limited, might be my only saviour in this situation.
“No? Odd. Vaguely remember a bloke looked a bit like you at school.”
He raised his hand and I flinched. With a one-sided grin he touched my forehead with his index finger and drew it down my cheek, tracing the line of my jaw-bone.
He looked at me intently for a short moment, then lowered his hand and grasped the hem of my skirt. “What colour pants you wearing?” he demanded.
I gasped and looked at him in disbelief. Surely he wouldn’t..?
One part of my mind realised that, if I were to survive this ordeal, I should at least go along with it for a while.
“Pink,” I stammered, flushing.
He eased my skirt upwards towards my waist, revealing my trembling legs, and gazed at my revealed mid-section, slowly licking his lips. “So you are,” he admitted, and returned his gaze to my eyes. “And very nice, too,” he added.
I thanked God that my boy bits were securely hidden between my legs, out of sight and hopefully out of mind. I feared what might happen next. If he — if they — decided that I was easy prey, I could be looking at an attempted gang rape. If that was their intention, my secret would be discovered very swiftly, and I would be lucky to leave the underground car park alive! How apt that I had called it a mausoleum — it might end up my last resting place!
Desperation fuelled my soul. I knew now I had to lie to try to avoid what I felt was coming next. “Please,” I said, and he again fixed my eyes with his own.
“Please, I’m pregnant,” I told him earnestly, mustering up as much veracity in my voice as I could. “Please don’t hurt my baby.”
His other hand came out of his jacket pocket, and I shrank away from him, terror in my face and mind. It was empty, to my immense relief, and he gently stroked my exposed belly, still staring at me.
“In the club, yeah?” he said, one finger inserting itself between my belly and the elastic waist of my panties. He pulled outwards and released, allowing the elastic to ping gently back against my bare skin. I winced, and nodded in reply to his question, my secreted penis swelling with anxious desperation.
He repeated his actions a couple of times, staring fixedly into my eyes as if trying to verify the truth of my statement. Fear, always fear, was uppermost in my mind, the fear of the unknown, wondering what he might be thinking of doing next.
Another part of my mind registered the continuing inability of my bladder to retain urine, which I sensed was still seeping slowly from me and being soaked up by my already damp underwear. I smelt the faint acidic odour and wondered if he was aware of it too.
He leaned forward and kissed me, his tongue forcing itself into my mouth, his breath stale and slightly alcoholic, then stood back.
“At school,” he said, “Did you and me ever make out?”
I was tempted to lie again, to tell him that yes, he had had me before, that if he continued as I thought he intended it would be his second bite at the cherry. My cherry!
I opted for the truth and slowly shook my head.
“No,” he said, “I’d have remembered a looker like you.” He released my skirt, which thankfully fell to cover my embarrassment. He smiled, and jerked his head towards the exit. “Get going before I change my mind, Kimmie,” he said.
I looked at him incredulously, searching his face for the falsehood, my lips trembling and tears in my eyes.
He nodded, smirking, then glanced at his two companions. “We were at school together,” he snarled at them, as if by way of explanation. He looked back at me, where I still stood transfixed with indecision.
“Go!” he shouted.
Even in my relief and doubt, I glanced at my handbag. He followed my eyes and nodded. “Get it and go!”
Action took the place of thought. Grabbing my bag from the concrete floor I half-turned and scuttled towards the exit, keeping one cautious eye on my three interceptors until I reached the somewhat safer security of the well lit streets.
As they vanished from my view I saw the ringleader hitting one of his comrades and shouting something at him. I waited no longer; scooping up my shoes I fled homewards in my stockinged feet, that persistent fear adding wings to my flight.
Slamming the front door behind me I raced upstairs to my bedroom, thankful my mother had not yet arrived home to interrogate me. I fell on my bed, my body racked with a painful fit of sobbing, and cursed the male gender to hell for all eternity, indeed cursed all of mankind, and of all these I cursed myself most of all, intensely and tragically, for being what and who I was.
Gradually my grief died away, the tears drying on my cheeks, and I stood up and stripped off my clothes. My urine-drenched panties went in the bathroom sink covered in hot water and washing powder to soak. My body went under a very hot shower for a very long time, to wash away the indescribable contamination I felt at what I had just experienced.
As my body relaxed under the needle-sharp pin-pricks of hot water I began smoothing a relaxing shower gel over my skin, soothing away the mental and physical conflict.
As I grew calmer, I began a critical self-examination, marvelling at the change in me. My skin had become softer and smoother, my hair, which I had grown to shoulder length, was a full and luxurious dark brown. I no longer needed to worry about a five-o’clock shadow.
As I soaped my breasts — no more plastic chicken fillets! - I tried to convince myself that more than a handful was too much. No Jayne Mansfield, me! I looked wonderingly at my erect nipples and the dark brown aureoles surrounding them. My searching fingers gently stroked my genital area, at the changes in my penis and testicles, wrought smaller under the influence of the hormone therapy I was undergoing.
Despite what had just happened, despite the fear, the dread that this incident had produced in me I still felt comfortable with my choice. If that was what men were, at their deepest, most basic level, then I was glad to be out of it, glad to know I would soon be a real woman, even though I knew I was only at the beginning of a long, difficult but wondrous journey.
I didn’t know what life held for me, but my feelings about men had received a short, sharp shock that would take a long time to recover from. At this point in time I despised the gender, and made a vow to avoid them as much as
I could. Like most vows, I knew in my heart of hearts that this one was likely to be broken, but I needed it now in order to get on with my life.
Jean’s family had booked a small local hall for her engagement party, and I was quite looking forward to attending the function. For one thing, it meant yet another shopping trip to buy something great to wear, a vice I had never had as John, and my mother turned up trumps by accompanying me and giving me some good advice. She also made a few saucy suggestions in a few lingerie departments, causing me to blush deeply more than once and swear I would never take her shopping with me again!
For another, it meant one more small step in my acceptance as Kim. Although my own family had more or less come to terms with my strange life decision, I still needed to circulate more in my own circle of friends as a female. Parties full of strangers didn’t really count; I needed the people I loved to approve and acknowledge me in my new life.
Jean’s family had been as supportive as my mother, non-questioning and non-judgmental, especially her younger sister who had always had a soft spot for me — for John. Her brother had been the only suspicious one, but even he finally accepted that my wishes were genuine, and became a good friend to me.
The big ordeal for me would have been turning up to the party on my own, but Barry offered to pick me up and take me there. I was touched, as the journey was out of his way. Surprisingly he was quite protective of me in my new persona.
My outfit for the evening was completely brand new. I had decided on a pink theme, and bought a pale pink basque edged with tiny red roses, and matching panties. My hormone treatments ensured that the bulge in the bra cups was now truly my own unenhanced body. I had decided to wear cream-coloured stockings, and my dress, an off-the-shoulder evening gown with a tight waist and flared skirt was also of a pale pink silk which matched my two-inch-heeled shoes. A large cream woollen shawl went over my shoulders and I had a tiny pink evening bag clutched in one hand.
With minimal make-up and my newly long hair hanging loose and luxuriant about my face and neck, and adorned only with a small pink butterfly clip at one side, I felt radiant.
Barry took the proverbial ‘double-take’ when he saw me. “Shit, Kim,” he said in awe, “You look fabulous! How did you ever get away with pretending to be John for all those years?”
This, for him, was a great compliment, and I impulsively kissed him on the cheek. He looked at me in alarm. “Hey,” he protested, “Let’s leave that until after the operation, can we?”
I looked at him in exaggerated disgust until we both burst out laughing. He opened the passenger door for me.
“Get in, you bitch,” he said, “And keep your hands to yourself. My fiancé wants me to arrive in one piece!”
I growled at him from deep in my throat, and we both laughed again. “God,” I told him, “I could murder a pint!”
That had been one of my problems, of course. I had always loved my beer, and there weren’t an awful lot of girls to be seen downing a pint in the local. I had had to moderate my drinking habits to half-pints or wine. Bummer. It just meant I had to keep going back to the bar more frequently.
The party was in full swing when we arrived, and fortunately all attention was on Barry as the prospective groom as we entered the hall. I slipped quietly away to deposit my shawl somewhere safe, and sought out Jean and her parents to say my hellos.
Duty over, I was swooped on by Jean’s friend, Mary, who monopolised me for ages. She had been let into my little secret by Jean, with my permission, and for some reason I had been accepted, so to speak, to her bosom. She had never got over the way she had been deceived at her party, but had taken it in good part. I loved her to bits, she was so open, generous and spontaneous, and felt a little lost when she was captured by somebody else and dragged away.
Feeling somewhat isolated I eased through the milling, chattering throng towards the bar, where I replenished the small glass of wine I was drinking. This was one night when I meant to keep a clear head.
An obviously attention-seeking throat-clearing sounded behind me. I turned to find myself face to face with Harry. His face was flushed, and he seemed to have some difficulty in speaking.
“Er…John,” he ventured, “Er…Kim…”
I smiled, and saved his embarrassment. The smile was genuine. The way I felt these days I was everyone’s friend. Well, almost. “Kim,” I told him. “I’m Kim now.”
“Yeah, right,” he said awkwardly. “Er…Kim. You look…er…nice.”
I knew I looked good, and that made me feel good. Although things would never be the same between us again, this was a party in honour of Jean and Barry, both good friends of ours, and I saw no reason to spoil it by being mean-minded.
“Well thank you kind sir,” I said, and made a small curtsey.
The flush stayed with him. “I…do you think…”
I looked askance. “I often think,” I told him.
“No, I mean…do you think we could…talk?”
“I thought we were.”
“Er…privately?”
I looked at him curiously. “Is that a good idea?” I asked impishly.
This time he blushed a deep beetroot red. “Please?”
I relented. “Sure. Talk.”
He glanced around. “Not here. Somewhere…alone.”
I turned my mouth down at the corners. “I’m not so sure I want to be alone with you,” I said. “You’ve got previous.”
His hands were clenching and unclenching nervously and I could see beads of sweat standing out on his forehead.
“All right,” I said, relenting. “Where did you have in mind?”
He inclined his head to the entrance door. “There’s a side path that leads to a small garden out there.”
“Hmm,” I mused. “You, me and a garden. I don’t know about this.”
Again the deep blush, just as the last one was subsiding. Poor Harry. Am I or am I not a Grade-A bitch? Give the guy a break, I told myself.
“Oh, come on,” I said impatiently, “Lead the way or we’ll still be standing here when they get married!”
He looked at me hesitantly, and then led the way outside and to the rear of the little wooden hall. A full moon hovered large in a clear velvet sky that was covered with a myriad of tiny, twinkling pin-pricks. The heady smell of vegetation after a fresh downpour of rain filled my nostrils. I inhaled deeply. Life felt very good.
I stood quietly while Harry made up his mind what he wanted to say. Finally: “I think I owe you an apology,” he said.
“Think you do?” I queried.
“OK, I do.”
“Why now, suddenly? I’ve seen you at other parties. You’ve not even acknowledged me most of the time. In fact, you’ve totally blanked me!”
“I’ve thought about…what happened…a lot.”
My eyes flashed. “Hey, guess what? So have I!”
“I know,” he said appeasingly. “I don’t know what got into me that day…”
“No,” I interrupted, “But I know what got into me!”
His colouring was a permanent maroon. He looked totally distraught. “Kim, you are a dreadful tease!”
I looked at him quietly. “I wasn’t a tease the first time we met,” I reminded him. “I may not have given you what you really wanted, and you know why now, but you got a good second best!”
He gazed at me silently, abashed.
“The next time I was trying to say goodbye to you. Admittedly it got out of hand, but when a girl says ‘no,’ she means ‘no.’”
He hung his head. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.
I cupped a hand to my ear. “Can’t hear you.”
“I’m sorry,” he said a little louder, a little stronger.
“Well, I can’t say it’s all right,” I told him, “Because my arse was in agony for weeks. I still worry when I have to sit down.” Not strictly true, of course, but why should I give him an easy ride? God, that was Freudian!
He looked at me in a puzzled fashion, as if trying to decide whether I was being serious or not.
“Was it any good my saying sorry?” he asked.
“Why did you want to?”
He was very hesitant this time. “As you say, I’ve seen you a lot since then, at parties. You always look great. You’re always one of the best-looking girls, if not the best-looking girl, there.”
“Girl?” I queried bluntly, “Or queer in a dress?”
He paused then. “Girl,” he admitted quietly.
“So you like me as a girl, then?”
He nodded. “I tried to tell myself I was being stupid, but every time I saw you I fancied you!”
“So why didn’t you say something sooner?”
“Worry, I guess,” he admitted. “I know what I did to you — to John — was wrong, a terrible thing, and even now I don’t understand what happened, and I thought you would laugh at me, sneer at me, if I tried to tell you how I really felt.”
“So why now?”
Another pause. “I can see you’re determined to be a girl, I’ve heard you’re going to have an operation. Trouble is, Kim, I still fancy you every time
I see you, it won’t go away.”
“Harry, I’m still a bloke. Well,” I glanced down at my boobs, “Half a bloke, anyway.”
He followed my gaze. “Are they real?”
“Home grown,” I told him. “Fancy a feel?”
His mouth dropped open and his eyes met mine in an unspoken question.
“Don’t even think about it,” I answered.
“But…eventually…you will be a…proper…girl?”
I nodded. “The best kind,” I said. “You could shag me every day of the year if you wanted and I’d never, ever, get pregnant!”
He looked shocked at my blunt, matter-of-fact speech. I read inner turmoil in his face.
“Kim,” he said slowly, “I know I’ve hurt you badly, but I really, truly fancy you. I can’t get you out of my head, out of my mind. Do you think there’s any chance..?”
I really had the devil in me that night. “Chance? Of what?” I said in a puzzled tone.
“Of us…getting together…again?”
There was a long silence as I looked up at his anxious face; then I reached up and put my arms around his neck. Pressing my hips hard against his enormous erection I kissed him slowly, rubbing myself against him as our tongues caressed, a long, slow, lingering kiss to end all kisses.
“When we met you thought you fancied a girl who was like you.”
Her eyes grew round. “Were you only pretending to like girls ..?”
“Laura, you got it all wrong. I wasn’t pretending at all. I fell in love with you.”
Part 10
By Kim Johns
I slowly pulled my lips away from Harry’s and gently slid my hands to his chest, pushing him slightly away from me. As he opened his eyes to look at me, his face vacant apart from a somewhat moonstruck expression that I took to be that of love’s young dream, I brought one knee up smartly between his legs, not hard enough to maim but with sufficient force to bring tears to his eyes.
I watched with detached interest as he leaned forward in a silent agony and swiftly clasped his smarting testicles with both hands, gasping as he opened his mouth widely to draw in sufficient air to breathe. For a few moments he looked a bit like a fish out of water.
Finally, as the pain abated, he looked at me with glazed, watery eyes, still leaning slightly forward and still clutching protectively at his wedding tackle.
“Why?” he managed to say.
This time a sneer did cross my lips. Miss Nasty Bastard was in full swing. “Did you really think your smooth fancy talk could make me overlook what you did to me?” I asked him. “You forget, Harry, I’ve seen you in action far too many times to be taken in by your honeyed tongue. I will truly be a female in time, but that doesn’t make me stupid. I don’t know what you thought you were up to by saying you fancied me, but it doesn’t work with this one, buster.”
“But it’s true,” he protested painfully, “I realised it didn’t matter that you were once John. I really love you, Kim!”
A fleeting doubt crossed my mind. Was he being, for once in his life, honest in what he was saying? I didn’t know, and decided I didn’t want to. Whatever his current motives, Harry had treated me more than shamefully and, despite our strong friendship in the past, his actions had put an end to any faint lingering feelings of comradeship I might have had for him.
I knew I could never trust him again, and I didn’t want to. If he did, truly, love me — Kim — then it was unrequited. I might go to my grave alone and unloved, but I would never accommodate a falsehood just for companionship. Harry had crossed an invisible line — and there was no crossing back.
Kim had finally grown up!
I looked contemptuously at his bent figure, turned away from him and returned to the bright lights and joyous atmosphere of my friends’ celebration.
Time passed, and to all intents and purposes I was Kim now. For almost two years I had slept, lived and breathed as Kim. I dressed in her favourite clothes. I was employed as Kim. The measure of my success was, I suppose, the fact that guys were forever asking me out, those at work and those I met at parties. I always said no. I didn’t know why, I suppose I thought that after the operation things would be different, so I played the waiting game, and was told by the various female acquaintances who were unaware of my true self that I must be a very cold fish to break so many hearts!
Those two years had sped by, and the day of my operation drew near. My mother almost had a fit organising things in readiness for my admittance, whilst strangely, I felt an odd sort of calm as the fateful day approached. I went into hospital with a numbed trepidation, although nothing now would alter my sense of purpose, and I knew I faced my ordeal with the full support of all my friends and family.
Lying in bed in hospital on that ominous morning, with my mother sitting anxiously at the bedside, my mind was in turmoil, my self-confidence at an all-time low. Was it too late to change my mind, and if not did I really want to? I had spent twenty-four months waiting for this very moment, enduring the ups and downs of my burgeoning womanhood against all the odds. Was it all worth it? Could I get up and walk away, still a man, and continue happily with my life where I had left off?
In my head, a battle royal was waging between John and Kim, the one puzzling whether to quit while he was still ahead and maintain the status quo, the other struggling to assert her undoubted femininity and break free from the long years she had endured in shackles.
My mother sensed my doubts, and squeezed my hand.
“Anytime you want to change your mind,” she told me, “Just let me know. I’ll have you out of this bed and out of this hospital faster than you can blink!”
I looked her in the eyes. “What shall I do, Mum?” I asked desperately.
She laid her head beside mine on the pillow and whispered softly in my ear. “I can’t tell you that,” she said. “All I know is, I’ll support you whatever. But the final decision is always going to be yours. Shall I leave you alone for a moment?”
I nodded, and she stood and drew the curtains around me. I heard the soft squeak of leather as she sat on the padded wooden visitor’s chair again, out of sight.
I pictured the last two years in my head, rolling the months forwards and backwards like a cinema film, reliving every moment, good and bad. What did I really want?
Behind me, a shaft of sunlight suddenly shone through the window, reflecting my shadow on the bed’s drab counterpane, warming my whole body, calming my turbulent mind, pointing me in what I finally realised was the only direction my heart wanted me to go.
The operation, with the backing of all the modern miracles of medical science, was a resounding success, and although I spent some time in post-op care and rehabilitation I soon found myself standing in the foyer of the hospital clutching my suitcase and waiting for my patient mother, discharged and finally returning home.
I was now, officially, Kim!
Everything gradually returned to normal over the next few months. I went back to work after my ‘illness’ and was told by everyone how well I now looked, and life continued its usual everyday running.
The only difference was that I was now ‘properly’ Kim, both physically and mentally, and although I had been living as her continuously over the previous twenty-four months, there was a subtle change at home. I don’t think my mother had really accepted that my decision was irreversible until the operation became an undeniable fact, and now it was over she treated me as her daughter in every way.
Socially, I had no shortage of friends. Jean and Barry were still my closest and oldest, but I had developed further friendships at my job, and through them and other outside interests, more relationships.
It may sound like bragging, but I was forever being asked out by the guys at work or who I came into contact with through my social connections. This really bolstered my own self-confidence, and I never regretted my decision to become my mother’s daughter.
Whilst I took advantage of the invitations, however, no serious relationship developed. I enjoyed the flirting, and I enjoyed the courting, but whether it was because I had once been of the same gender, I could never seem to wholeheartedly enter into a ‘couple’ situation with any of my amorous suitors, however much I liked them and enjoyed their company.
I guess it may have been the thought that, should a serious relationship be on the cards, I would have to be truthful about myself and my true origins. The fear of rejection loomed high in my thoughts.
Once or twice I even ventured between the sheets with a man I felt really comfortable with.
Bob was a great guy, someone I had met through work colleagues. He was handsome in a rugged sort of way, and ever the gentleman. He took me to a restaurant and wined and dined me, and we eventually ended up at his bachelor flat at the end of the evening.
I sat demurely on his settee while he poured me a drink and put an album on his state-of-the-art hi-fi system, a quiet, romantic record. Then he took my hands and I stood up, and we danced slowly around the dimly-lit room, close together, swaying easily in time to the music.
As the last notes of the music faded he wrapped his arms around me and kissed me passionately, and I realised that our musical meanderings had terminated in his bedroom.
I barely felt his gentle fingers unzipping my dress, or heard the soft sound as it slithered down my body to fold on the floor in a rustle of whispering silk. His hands caressed my breasts before lifting me onto the bed, where he quickly and efficiently divested me of, first, my bra, and then my panties, easing them down my body and over my feet with a suave expertise.
I was quivering with an excited anticipation as he kissed me again, until a sudden realisation exploded inside me. I was now fully female, and this was to be the first time a man would make love to me!
I felt my body tense with frightened apprehension, and Bob must have sensed my inhibition, for he began speaking to me soothingly in a low, calming voice, and stroking my naked body with gentle, warm hands. I willed myself to relax, and felt myself responding to his caresses. He stroked my breasts and the softness of my belly before playing tenderly with my new womanhood.
I sighed, and let my mind and body float. Bob raised himself above me and moved forward, and I felt his hardness against me. He then carefully entered me, and I automatically put my arms around his upper body to hold him close, while my legs enfolded his waist to ensure I enjoyed all of him.
He was a gentle lover, slow and kind, but after a few moments his whole body stiffened and he shuddered with release. Then he lay carefully on top of me and kissed me again before rolling to one side onto his back. Within moments I heard soft snores coming from his slightly parted lips.
I stared at the ceiling, examining my feelings. I was no longer a virgin, whatever that may have meant in my peculiar circumstances, but I couldn’t help but feel that there was something missing from the experience, some subtle absence that I couldn’t quite define. Love, perhaps?
I tossed these thoughts over and over in my mind, satisfied on one level but not on another, while he lay beside me sleeping, issuing gentle grunts and muttering from time to time.
After a few more civilised evenings Bob and I eventually went our own ways, with no ill-feeling, and remained friends.
Nick, on the other hand, was full of youthful energy, always looking for the next buzz. His was the world of the disco, and after a frenzied night’s dancing we returned to his small flat full of laughter and exuberance, and not a little alcohol, too.
No sooner had he kicked the front door shut behind us, however, than he pressed me against the wall and kissed me strongly and fiercely, his hands squeezing my breasts hard. I tried to remonstrate, but his mouth blocked my speech.
Then he pulled my dress up and my panties down, and forced himself between my legs, driving into me with a quick fury that made me feel like a French prostitute in a grimy Paris back alley.
Having speedily satisfied himself, he lurched drunkenly away from me, vanishing into his tiny hall toilet.
I rearranged my clothing and self-composure, and slipped silently out of the flat to the sound of his agonised one-way communication with God on the great white telephone. I knew we would never make it as an “item,” and in truth I never ran across him again.
Strangely, I found both experiences peculiarly enjoyable and exciting in their own different ways and I know I for one came away oddly satisfied from each encounter, kinky bitch that I am, but I never felt I had found that depth of feeling or commitment necessary for a more permanent relationship. In fact, I sometimes found myself feeling disgusted with myself for allowing these male animals to treat me as they had.
I came to the conclusion that perhaps I didn’t really know what I did want for myself, and maybe never would.
That is not to say I was unhappy, however. Whatever the viewpoint, I felt I had finally found and become the real me. Life could throw what it liked at me, I was now a ‘whole’ woman and happy with my chosen life. Whilst John was not forgotten, after all he was an integral part of my formative years, I had made my considered choice, and was satisfied.
As I say, life went on. Jean and Barry’s wedding loomed yet nearer.
“Kim?”
It was Jean on the phone; she said the magic word: “Drinkies?”
We met at our favourite hostelry, and she came straight to the point.
“Sorry, Kim, it’s wedding talk I’m afraid!”
I made a face. “Can’t you talk about something else?”
“Nope! And this is serious chat. It’s not long to the big day, and there are still some things to be sorted out!”
“Like what?”
“Well,” she looked at me thoughtfully, “Initially Barry and I had always marked you and Harry down as ushers whenever we’d spoken about it. As you know, his brother is going to be his best man.”
“And?”
“Traditionally, ushers are always men…”
“So break with tradition. I don’t mind being an usher. I don’t even mind being one with Harry!”
I had run across Harry a couple of times since the engagement party. He seemed to have got the message pretty loudly and clearly, avoiding close proximity to me like the plague, although to give him his due he now always, very politely and cautiously, acknowledged my existence.
Jean laughed. “Well, tough! My brother’s going to do it now!”
“Oh.” I was beginning to feel left out, an onlooker on the periphery of the girl’s big day.
“There is another role to be filled,” she continued cautiously.
I raised my eyebrows.
“Well, we were wondering if you would be our second bridesmaid…”
My jaw dropped. This was something I’d never even dreamed of. My brain still sometimes had trouble sorting out the Kim/John thing, even though I was now all Kim.
“Say you will,” Jean urged me. “Mary’s going to be one, and I know you two get along fine. I want two bridesmaids, and I can’t think of a better person!”
“Your sister,” I suggested, playing devil’s advocate.
“She’s told me in no uncertain terms that I will never get her following me down the aisle dressed like a Christmas Tree Fairy!”
“Is that what you want Mary and me to look like, then?”
“Of course not! I’ve got some very nice dresses in mind, but I do need you to say yes!”
I looked at her doubtfully. “Jeannie,” I said, “It’s a lovely thought, but don’t forget, this is your big day. You don’t want it spoiled by everyone flocking along to look at the freaky transsexual in the big dress.”
Giggling, Jean sipped her drink. “Don’t flatter yourself, kid,” she said, “I’ve already done an audit on this. All my family are keen for you to do it, Mary is keen for you to do it, and apart from your mum and Harry I don’t think there’s anyone else with the remotest idea of what you once were.”
“Can I think about it?”
“Sure; you’ve got two seconds; I really need to know now. One…”
I grinned suddenly as the thought took hold of me. “OK,” I told her. “Sold!”
She reached across the table and took my hand in hers. “Thanks, Kim,” she said. “I really appreciate it. I know you might find it a bit difficult, because people will be looking at you and at Mary, as well as me and Barry, but think of it as your big ‘coming out’ celebration!”
“That I won’t,” I said determinedly. “This is your wedding day, Jeannie. I wouldn’t spoil it for you for the world!”
She stood. “I know,” she said, and kissed me on the cheek. “I’ll call you and we’ll all meet up to look at the choices and arrange the fittings. Not long now!”
After she’d gone I sat quietly for a few minutes. Whilst the thought of being the just off-centre point of attraction was not a little frightening, I realised that this sort of thing came with my new territory. I was damned if a queasy stomach was going to put me off doing what other, normal(?) girls did with squeals of delight. Yet again, the die was cast.
The morning of the wedding was bright and clear, with the promise of sun in the afternoon. Nothing could have been more perfect!
Mary and I had stayed at Jean’s the previous night, and after a swift and very light breakfast our task was, first and foremost, to get her looking beautiful for her big church entrance.
Then, of course, we had to get ourselves ready, and off to the church before Jean and her father arrived there.
That morning was a mad whirl. With Jean’s mother and sister there were five of we women in an enclosed space endeavouring to look as if we had just stepped from the pages of ‘Bride’ magazine. I think it is to our credit that we managed it without squabbling, and remaining friends!
This, of course, was my first time getting dressed in a roomful of ‘real’ women, and a part of my mind had wondered how they would react to an ex-male in their midst as the removal and replacement of inner- and outer-wear took place.
In the event, they had taken no more notice of my state of undress than I had in theirs, and I soon got used to dashing from bathroom to bedroom to dressing table in my underwear, skilfully avoiding collision as they all managed the same hasty tasks!
I had chosen to wear a strapless lacy cream bra and matching thong beneath my dress, with cream lace-topped hold-ups. My hair, hanging loose to just below my shoulders, had a slight curl, and I wore it with the fringe brushed to one side. My make-up, whilst fairly minimal, I felt complemented my natural colouring, and my nails were coated with a clear pearl varnish.
The bridesmaid’s dresses were of a burgundy colour, and strapless, fitting closely around the body and into the waist, where the ankle length skirt flared gently out to float just above the ground. They were complemented by a matching stole and small beaded bag, and the piece-de-resistance was a gold-coloured sprig tiara over our hair.
Mary and I looked at each other and grinned appreciatively, before kissing each other on the cheek and dashing off to ensure that Jeannie was a) coping and b) looked twice as good as we both felt we did!
With seconds to spare Mary and I were bundled into a limousine and deposited at the church where we hovered anxiously, clutching our fresh bouquets.
I peeped through the slightly open doors of the church and saw a packed gathering. My heart skipped a beat as I realised I had to walk through the middle of the crowd in my finery. Although now a ‘real’ woman, I still had occasional worries that my features and build were more masculine than feminine, despite constant reassurance from those female acquaintances who were now privy to my secret.
Jean’s brother and Harry hovered just inside the entrance doors, in their role as ushers, presumably awaiting the last minute arrival of guests, and I spotted Barry and his brother standing nervously at the front of the church conversing with the officiating priest. Harry noticed me and offered me a tight smile, and I smiled freely back at him. We would never be close again, in any circumstance, but I wasn’t going to let Jean and Barry’s big day be spoiled by any acrimony on my part.
Then Jean and her father arrived in a flurry of white swirling skirts and petticoats, and Mary and I fussed around her making minute adjustments to her dress and veil that were totally unnecessary. The bride’s father winked at me slyly. Strangely, he had been one of the more supportive of the males who had been aware of my decision. I grinned back.
Then the organ music filled the huge establishment, Jean’s father offered her his arm, and they slowly marched down the aisle to the girl’s waiting groom, with Mary and me close behind.
Everything went without a hitch, and I breathed a sigh of relief as, with Mary beside me, we arrived with the blushing bride at the front of the church. Barry’s face was a picture when he saw Jean, and I knew then that all our efforts had been successful.
I had tunnel vision as we took that long walk down the aisle, wanting to avoid catching anyone’s eyes, still fearful that my presence might spoil the day, but that didn’t prevent me spotting my mother half-way down the church on the bride’s family’s side. She had told me she would be getting a taxi to the church, and whilst my full commitment had been for Jean I still had a small part of my mind worrying about her.
After the ceremony and photographs I sought out mum and steered her towards the bridesmaid’s car. “You’re riding with us,” I told her firmly. “I’m making sure you arrive at the reception safe and sound!”
Jean’s father had booked the reception at a large hotel about a mile from the church, exceedingly posh by all accounts.
My mother clung to my arm as we entered the hotel entrance, releasing it only as we deposited her coat in the cloakroom.
The function room inside was fairly large, huge glass chandeliers casting a bright light over everything, with tables set around a small dance floor that abutted a raised dais where the band would later play, and a board just inside the entrance door indicated at which table we were to sit. In front of the stage sat the top table. Small groups of people clustered around a bar area at one end of the room.
As we progressed through the throng I was conscious of the constant male attention. God, I thought, women must get fed up with men ogling them all the time! I’d only been really female for a short while, and already I was beginning to despise the shallow attitudes of my own (natural) sex.
By previous arrangement I sat with my mother at one of the smaller tables, still in my bridesmaid’s finery, which Mary and I had both agreed we would wear until the final guests had departed.
After the meal, which turned out to be a guessing game played around the huge amount of cutlery aligned at each place setting, and the usual cursory chatting with others at our table, the evening proper commenced. The lights around the dance floor dimmed and the queuing at the bar for drinks started in earnest.
While Barry and Jean were forced into the lonely ‘first dance,’ I left my mother chatting at the table, took my bag and went to collect appropriate beverages. By which, of course, I mean alcohol. To my surprise I was admitted immediately through the crowd and arrived at the bar in double quick time. In a dinner jacket and tuxedo as a guy I would have been hovering on the outskirts for days.
A sudden burst of laughter from one of the tables caused me to look round, curious as to the reason for the outburst.
A group of people was sitting a little way away, a man and woman of about my mother’s age, a young man in his mid-twenties and two girls of about my own age.
I looked twice at the guy. A younger version of Cary Grant, I thought. There’s just no-one on the screen nowadays to match the man. Though young, he even had a touch of distinguished grey around the temples. I envied whichever of the two girls he was squiring.
One of the girls, with shortish blonde hair, had her back to me. The other, with dark, long hair and very pretty, was leaning towards her with one hand on her arm, laughing delightedly, and it was obvious that the blonde girl was also laughing. It was a strangely intimate moment, and I looked away quickly, not wishing to intrude.
I returned to our table and deposited the drinks, and a live band commenced the evening’s entertainment.
I soon lost count of the number of times I had to refuse the offers of a dance with men who approached our table, although my mother repeatedly insisted I should take advantage of the invitations. I felt, however, that this evening was for her, and we chatted away as every mother and daughter do when alone together.
About half-way through the evening our conversation faltered as my mother looked up and behind me.
“Kim?” I heard a voice tentatively ask.
Turning in my seat I was confronted by Laura, doubt in her blue eyes and hesitation in her demeanour. She looked beautiful in an off-the-shoulder bottle-green gown that swept the floor, a small-stoned diamond necklace around her neck. Matching ear-rings sparkled in the half-light, which bounced attractively off her short golden hair.
“Laura! Hi!” I said weakly, and ridiculously stood up. Ridiculous because it was a typical male reaction and not something a woman would have done. However, no one seemed to notice, and I introduced the girl to my mother and pulled out a vacant chair for her.
“I wasn’t sure it was you when I saw you coming down the aisle with Mary,” Laura told me, sitting gracefully. “You’ve changed a lot in two years.” (More than you’d know, I commented mentally). “You look really nice. More than nice,” she added, and blushed.
My mother looked curiously from her to me and back again, obviously wondering about our history.
“Laura’s an old friend of Jean’s,” I explained. “I met her at a party.” I hoped my look explained everything, and as my mother nodded I felt sure she had remembered to which party I was referring. I realised I had never mentioned my encounter to anyone other than Jean and Harry.
“Where are you sitting?”
The girl pointed across the room to the group I had observed earlier. I gazed at Cary Grant and wondered whether I could wangle an introduction. The dark-haired girl was obviously Laura’s air-hostess.
“How did your move go?” Laura asked.
Shit. Mum was giving me another odd look, but Laura hadn’t seemed to notice.
“Ah, it fell through,” I said. “We’re still looking.” I made eye contact with mum, hoping she would cotton on to the mammoth lies I was telling. Her face wore a slightly puzzled expression and I realised that there was going to be a lot of explaining later on.
A pause as Laura gazed blankly at the drinks on the table. Then: “It’s been a long time. I thought you might have contacted me,” she said, cautiously, and with not a little embarrassment. I noticed a faint but attractive red flush appear at the back of her neck.
“I was going to,” I began, reaching inside for another lie, when I remembered what Jean had said to me. I suddenly realised that this girl had meant more to me than that, even though I had only met her on the one occasion, and that I couldn’t continue to lie to her and cause her more pain. I knew she would hate me for what I had to say, but I had been given a new beginning and I knew I didn’t want it to start with lies and deceit.
“Shit!” I said in a most unladylike manner, and both Laura and my mother looked at me, shocked.
“Sorry,” I said. “Sorry.” I took Laura’s hand. “I really need to speak to you,” I told her, standing up. I looked at my mother. “Sorry, mum, do you mind if we vanish for a bit?”
My mother shook her head, puzzled, curious, but accommodating. Laura rose, a small wrinkle furrowing her brow, and I led the way out of the room into the foyer. A number of other people were there, with drinks in their hands, conversing in low tones. They glanced up at our entrance, momentarily, incuriously.
I looked around, desperate for privacy, and noticed a glazed door angled in a small, almost invisible, corner. Through it I could see foliage. Experimentally I crossed to it and pushed it, and found it led to an enclosed courtyard surrounded by climbing plants and with a feebly trickling central fountain. I led Laura through.
We were alone.
“Kim,” began Laura, but I put my hand gently over her mouth.
“Laura,” I said firmly, and paused, collecting my thoughts. “Laura, I can’t lie anymore. I have to tell you the truth. I don’t want to, because I don’t want to hurt you…”
“You found another girl you liked better than me,” she finished for me listlessly, pulling her hand from mine, her eyes shining with tears. “I guessed as much. No wonder you didn’t phone me. I knew it would be something like that. How could I possibly have thought you could have cared for someone like me? And Jean…”
“It’s not that at all,” I said sharply, causing her to look at me with astonishment. “And Jean gave me hell for not getting in touch with you. I’ll never find another girl like you. I…”
I had to say it. “I loved you,” I said simply.
“Then why …”
“Oh, Laura, let me tell you the truth. I don’t want to hurt you, God knows, but you will be…”
Again she interrupted, her face flushed and tears rolling down her cheeks.
“You’ve realised you’re straight and you’ve found a boy-friend,” she finished for me again.
“Oh, shit, no! No!” This was not going well. “Laura, there’s no way to avoid it. I’ve got to tell you, however much it will hurt!”
Her eyes were wide, bright with her tears, staring earnestly at me. She was trembling, and I’ve never hated myself as much as I did then.
“Laura, a lot has happened over the last couple of years …”
She went to interrupt but I pressed my hand gently over her mouth again.
“When we met you thought you fancied a girl who was like you.”
Her eyes grew round. “Were you only pretending to like girls ..?”
“Laura, you got it all wrong. I wasn’t pretending at all. I fell in love with you.”
“Then…”
“No. I was not a girl. I was a boy. I thought you had found out I was a boy, and came into the garden to tell me how clever you’d been to unmask me.”
“A boy?”
“Yes. I went to that damn party dressed as a girl for a bet!”
“You’re a boy?” She began edging cautiously away.
“Not any more,” I told her.
“Yes, I can see you’ve dressed up again …”
“Because I’m now a girl.”
She was now edging towards the door, her face a picture of worry and anxiety, and my impatience got the better of me. I took her firmly by the arm and sat her down at the edge of the fountain. The rainbow droplets from the water sprinkled over her hair and bare shoulders matching the diamonds about her neck, but she ignored them, looking at me with not a little fright.
As I explained at length the whole sorry story her face gradually relaxed, sympathy replacing anger and indignation. I left nothing out.
“So you see,” I concluded, “I’m now really a girl, just, and starting my life over.”
“And do you have a boy-friend?”
I smiled. “I’ve had a lot of offers, but somehow they’ve all left me cold. I heard you’d moved in with an air hostess. She’s very beautiful.”
“Sorry?”
“Your girl-friend.” I visualised the dark haired girl at the table. “With the long dark hair.”
She looked amused. “You must mean Becky. She was the air hostess. She had gorgeous chestnut hair. I stayed with her for about six months. It was good fun, but it didn’t work. We had our differences. I moved back with my parents ages ago.”
“Oh. Well I like the look of your new friend, then.”
Again the laughing look. “Rachel. I really love her. She’s a very, very good friend.”
I must have looked unaccountably sad, although I smiled at her happiness, for she laid a gentle hand on my arm. “Unfortunately she’s also very, very pregnant, and also very, very much in love with my brother. They got married a year ago.”
“Your brother?”
“The younger guy we’re with? The older man is obviously my father!” She was very patient with me as I took in her words.
Oh well, goodbye, Cary. “Ah. So, do you have anyone?”
“Not at the moment. I’m footloose and fancy free. Looking for Miss Right!”
Where had I heard that before?
“I wish you luck,” I said. “I have never forgotten that evening.”
She made a face. “You let me down.”
“Now you know why.”
“And did you really love me?”
“Of course I did. I never…”
I paused as the truth sank in. My heart had started hammering away at my rib-cage like a jack-hammer. The string section of an invisible orchestra played a soaring, swooping melody, and at the same time a celestial choir had begun to sing in accompaniment. The small garden filled with a golden glow from somewhere far, far away. I suddenly realised an undeniable fact.
“I still do love you,” I said, wonderingly, “I’ve never stopped.”
Something flickered in her eyes. “Even though you’re now a girl?”
“Why … yes.”
She stood up then and came close to me. Her perfume reminded me of the first time we’d met. She raised her face to mine, and I automatically lowered my head to kiss her soft, warm lips.
She raised a finger before our lips touched. “You don’t have to do this,” she warned me.
I remembered heaven, and slipped my arms around her as she nestled closer to me. This time I did kiss her.
“Laura,” I murmured.
“Treasure the moment,” she whispered, and we kissed again, and I realised that somehow the world had, for me, found its own peculiar level. I had found love again, and even though I knew people would once more look askance at me I didn’t care. They had already frowned at me once at one of my decisions and I knew I was big enough to take more of their disapproval.
The world is a strange and wonderful place, and often a fearsome one also, and none of us can know what the future holds. All we can do is follow our hearts and instincts and pray that the decisions we make are the right ones…at least for us.
We wandered back to my mother, both of us in a bemused daze, my arm around Laura’s shoulders and hers around my waist, ignoring the startled, shocked and wondering looks of the other wedding guests who stared at us as we sat.
My mother’s face was a picture, but one of final comprehension and understanding.
“I think,” I told her, “That you may just have found yourself another daughter.”
But of course, if you’ve stayed with me this far, you’re not interested in all that, are you? What you really want to know is if I ever got my six months of free beer, because after all, that is what this has all been about, hasn’t it?
Of course I didn’t. Harry had disowned me forever, and Barry, whilst generous to a fault, couldn’t be expected to shoulder that responsibility on his own. I let him off, because I’m that kind of girl.
And did I feel I’d won my wager?
You bet!