I stood at the closet door. To open or not? That was the question. I never did have much willpower so hands reached out, opened the door, grabbed a top and put it on.
The chest underneath was completely wrong and spoiled the shape. Not for the first time in my life I cursed that bloody Y chromosome. It seemed that I’d known since I was knee-high to a grasshopper that something had gone wrong at birth; I’d lived sixteen very unhappy years knowing that.
There I was, just minding my own business when Mum waltzed unannounced and unbidden into my room and shouted (as if I were deaf), “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING, YOU PERVERT?”
Anyone would think I’d just started World War III.
“I don’t think I’m doing anything; I know exactly what I’m doing. And my dictionary claims that a pervert is someone who indulges in unnatural sexual acts. As I have yet to have sex with anyone, ergo I cannot be a pervert.” With hindsight, I could have chosen different words or, preferably, none at all.
My mother hadn’t finished her rant.
“You’re done up like a dog’s dinner; you must be queer.”
I responded. “I haven’t had sex with anyone, I don’t want sex with anyone, I’m not attracted to anyone, nobody’s attracted to me and sex is so far into the future as to be off the radar.”
“You must be queer, every boy that dresses in women’s clothes is queer; I’ve seen it on tele.”
I sighed; this was going to be difficult.
“Would you like me to repeat my previous statement? Would that help you to understand?”
“Do you think I’m stupid?” she asked.
Clearly, a positive answer would definitely have incriminated me.
“Just wait until your father gets home; he’ll have something to say about this.”
Oh boy, just what I needed; parental stupidity.
As expected, the fatherly loving hand left a gorgeous mark on my cheek.
“Your mother told me what you’d been doing; how could you let us down like this?”
I tried, “Let you down? How do you think I’ve felt all these years, trying to be someone I’m not?”
That earned me another hand print; this time on the other cheek. Well, at least they matched.
“You don’t even look like a woman!”
“And whose fault is that?” I unwisely asked.
That earned me a punch in the belly. I fully expected further action on his part while I was doubled over, but it didn’t happen; perhaps he’d finally got fed up with using me as a punch-bag.
I turned and left the house, with his parting comment ringing in my ears.
“And don’t bother coming back until you see sense!”
~ O ~
It wasn’t something I particularly wanted to do. What I really wanted was parental support — but I knew I wouldn’t get it. Talk about blinkered.
~ O ~
My mother would have found the note on the doormat the next morning. Posting that letter was the second hardest thing I’d ever done.
The End