The street sign pointed only one way, the little lane met the larger street but did not continue on the other side. A large Craftsman-style home occupied one corner, converted years ago into a sort of rooming-house-cum-residence-hotel-cum-bed-and-breakfast. A big squarish building with gables and porches, the one-time mansion bore its demotion to commercial property with the dignity of a bankrupt financier operating a hot dog wagon.

A woodlot sat on the other corner, a clutter of neat stacks of firewood and seemingly random piles of jumbled logs. The randomness, the owner would say, resulted from the necessary moving and turning of the piles of curing wood. A regular array would be less efficient at the task and would have to be unstacked and restacked to be sure the wood cured evenly. Simply moving the pile from one place to another once a week with an ancient forklift turned all the logs over and assured that each got enough sun and air to turn into perfect firewood.

The lane did not continue past the end of the woodlot or the small row of outbuildings behind the mansion. The house, being the only important building facing the street, bore a singular number and the name of the lane as its address. One April Morning.

On this particular morning, a resident of the former mansion woke to a life-changing discovery....
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I was looking for my son's pajamas in the laundry in the basement, sifting through each likely soft black item recently washed. Ah, hah! I thought, here's a pair..... cotton? a black dress? and another LBD - barely worn.

I paused, unsure now how long it had been since I'd dressed. Certainly not in the last few years.

How strange. I had no desire to dress up in drag today when I saw the dresses. Come to think of it, a few weeks back, I found my stash of jewelry: the peridot flower dangly earrings and matching necklace, the faux ruby earrings and bracelet, my "goth girl" accoutrements. BUT I didn't find the urge to dress.

I felt curious and like a kid poking the bruise to see how much it hurt, I conjured up images of my past...

The teacher droned on, lecturing about U.S. History, while I peeled my face off from the desk and my arm. I didn't have to look to know that the little round mirrors sewn on to the dress had left weird marks on my face during that nap. Oh well, at least the pastel peach, salmon, lavender and baby blue tie-dyed linen dress made my arm into a comfortable pillow, so much more than my textbook.

I wiggled, trying to make sure the hem of the baby-doll dress stayed put while stretching. I always felt uncomfortable and scared someone, a classmate, a teacher, would see through my impersonation. I certainly wasn't an outcast but I never truly fit... the other students sensing that there wasn't something quite right about me. I never quite fit in with the boys and the girls, well. I suppose I was well-liked, yet not fully part of their crowd either. Like primal animals with an orphan, they adopted me but I was never one of them. Never asked on a date, never asked for my number. I often wonder how they knew, if they even realized...

Lost in thought, I stood staring in space... this time the flashback was more recent:

I stood looking in the mirror, seeing a stocky blonde guy in a olive green plaid A-line dress. What did I want? I didn't know.... even if my life had depended on it, I couldn't have sorted my feelings at seeing the juxtaposition of my adult male body stuffed into that plaid dress. All I knew was that sense of wrongness was on the outside, visible to the naked eye. Even trying on my best auburn wig just made me look like a man wearing a dress and a wig. I kept the door shut hoping my ex and current roommate wouldn't walk in and see me dressed, it would be another long six months before sex again.

Like a moth to flame, the memories drew me back in time, to 10 years earlier:

There were 3 couples, six of us total, sitting under that canvas tent for breakfast.... It felt like another lifetime, remembering how comfortable I was to wear that dress in Arnhemland. As we were given the privilege of visiting where few white men had ever been allowed, I wore that dress in cool comfort, with the same aplomb seen in Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. Perhaps even because of the sacred lands and the magic of that place, my memories remained un-marred by the now ever-present dysphoria.

After a flurry of phone calls, the missing dress was shipped from Australia back to my home in America, to be tucked away safely in a drawer. Never to be worn outside again... but I didn't know this and I arranged the lengthy voyage for that piece of plaid comfort to return to it's proper home.

A noise startled me, bringing me out of my contemplative concentration. Churning thoughts and oddly, very little emotion to run amok while my body stood standing, like a robot awaiting it's next command.

A little piece of me pleaded, said, "but all those years of dressing, you can't give up that piece of yourself."

I shook my head. No time, no heart, no desire... I had invested so much time and energy throughout the years, trying to feel comfortable in my own skin, to feel like I truly was a real girl. Even now, I still feel a twinge, wishing that I could find happiness, that sense of belonging but I am very lacking now.

Despite lurking on BC-TG and my attempts at making the dresses I wore look natural and not like drag, I couldn't bring myself to commit to another attempt at dressing. But like many, I was sentimental... that was my downfall.

I couldn't wear them, my girl clothes, I couldn't be her anymore. Not even part-time, but I couldn't toss them either. They were my identity, my armour, my cross to bear (pardon the allusion) and so I was stuck for nearly 8 years: with the clothes, unwilling to throw out a part of myself, yet too paralyzed by fear to wear them again.

The taste of the fear brought another memory, long suppressed, complete with it's unique terror of discovery:

Despite the fear that bound my thoughts and mouth into silence, I had managed to procure one of my dad's fedora, to rest over my blonde hair. However, being in 7th grade, it was my mom's suit that fit me not my dad's and I was sent off full of hope to become the dashing gum-shoe in the Scout creative mystery video production. For a few hours my heart sang, while I envisioned the traces of my girl-ishness to be erased by this dapper outfit, making me a real man to camera. After all, the clothes make the man, they say. This time, I had to have gotten it right, this time I knew noone would recognize me, I'd hidden everything girly away.

The illusion shattered, I sat in stunned silence when we previewed the film. The other 4 scouts sat laughing, happy with their performance and the video. It must have been the suit, I rationalized. seeing myself through the camera - looking like a girl playing dress up in a women's suit, despite my efforts to finally secretly embrace my masculinity, trying to be the man I was supposed to become. I had no access to the words but this was the first and last time I truly tried with my whole being and soul to secretly pass as a real man.

Not wanting to linger on such tough times and heart-ache, I once again tried to shoved it all back into the little box in my mind. But like Pandora, I found there wasn't much I could do though, once the box was open... while the flashbacks were still potent and powerful, the clothes held no promise, no power to persuade me to dress, nothing for me to hide anymore.

I went upstairs, it was just another day to my family and friends. Life moves on yet I sit here, searching, writing, trying to figure out what changed.... am I whole now? ...did I lose that part of me, subsumed into the greater whole? I began, in 2005, a journey, I never thought to end. The monthly shots, surgery up top, GRS, ....am I now at the end of my journey? ...have I arrived? ...or am I slowly dying, losing myself piece by piece?

Please let me know if there are typos or other writing problems that need to be resolved.

I welcome feedback, comments, insights. For those of you who do not like this type of writing.... I do hope to write some feel-good fiction but somehow, I had to write this today.

The Princess Academy called L’Académie pour les Dauphines

[Dear reader, this story is based on Erin Halfelven story squib “Princess School” which to prevent gross errors, the foreign “language bits” are written in English or translated into French using Google Translate. My apologies and feel free to point out any language mistakes and I will get them corrected ASAP.]

Rafael sat in the wooden chair, barely daring to breath. Just past his 12th birthday, Raf was on that precipice between childhood and maturity. With his knees pressed together, his hands clenched tight, an almost imperceptible tremor of his body and the stark contrast of his wide eyes standing out in bas-relief against his pallor, Raf was more terrified than excited to be participating in the prestigious scholarship program.

One of only 100 children selected each year from more than 2 billion eligible, Rafael was to be given the opportunity to escape from the depths of poverty. Rafeal’s parents and sister were ecstatic.

Raf, on the other hand, looked like he was about to pass out from shock. While the thick deep red Oriental Rug would have clearly prevented him from being injured, Raf was trying his utmost to not collapse in a faint before the Headmistress.

Madame, as she was called, was the Headmistress of L’Académie pour les Dauphines or rather, because Raf didn’t speak French, The Princess Academy.

Raf knew that he was going to lose his scholarship. After all, each scholarship specified paired the recipient and the prestigious private school that they must attend. Since Rafael was to attend The Princess Academy, he knew that there had been a mistake because he was a boy and his scholarship would now be revoked.

”Raffaelle,” Madame said, “I trust that you had time to freshen up after traveling. We must now go over the details of your scholarship and attendance requirements of L’Académie pour les Dauphines.”

The Headmistress began explaining the school philosophy, the optional advanced collegiate studies and the career path available post graduation. Ralf’s head began to spin and her words faded as his blood pounded in his ears. He frantically tried to figure out how to politely tell Madame that there was a huge mistake and he was a boy. He knew that he wouldn’t have to explain why boys couldn’t be princesses and that would be the end of his scholarship.

Madame was looking at him expectantly and he hurriedly rushed into a jumbled “explapalogy,” as his sister liked to say...

“Sorry Madame, I am boy so sorry… I mean, boy, I am so sorry…Uh, So sorry, I am a boy…”

Rafael felt his face flushing bright red as he realized what he said in his hurry to explain and apologize. He opened his mouth to say that he wasn’t trying to be duplicitous but he was tongue tied and sat there like a fish trying to breathe out of water. His brain was screaming that he would be locked up for fraud or maybe even identity theft or worse… Would they even arrest his parents and sister?

The Madame spoke again, drawing his attention back to the conversation, “When you are at L’Académie pour les Dauphines, you will be physically a princess. When you return home at the school holidays, you will return as a boy. If you tell your parents that you are a Princess during the school term, they will believe that you are insane and send you to the ’Asile Pour Enfants’. ”

Raf started and then shuddered. Not at the thought of being committed to the Children’s Home for the Mentally Deranged ...but rather because he knew his parents well enough. His parents wouldn’t care what sacrifices he had to make to get to college; after all, with no college degree, there was no possibility of a safe life as an adult. Knowing how much his parents loved him, Raf knew that they might even see the Children’s Home for the Mentally Deranged as a sanctuary. A sanctuary that would allowed him live in relative safety, peace and intellectual freedom in exchange for loss of his physical freedom.

Thanks to the collapse of the world political structure in 2020, there were no protections for humanity nor the common man any more. Not only was the United States overthrown as one of the respected first world countries but the baby was thrown out with the bath water. [ Sorry, dear reader for using that archaic phrase but it was most apt.]

Worker protections from health insurance to OSHA went up in flames as the good old United States of America went through its Second Civil War. At the same time, the Communist Regime had economically gained control of many Asian and European nations.

His mind wandered to the struggles and sacrifices that his parents made to survive and raise a family. Exhausted and aging before their chronological years and living with the health effects of workplace chemical exposure, his mom and dad, saw this Scholarship as his chance to live a better life.

“We expect a very high standard of commitment to our programming, I mean program, here at L’Académie pour les Dauphines. Please read your handbook, paying particular attention to the lengthy list of infractions that will cause expulsion from the program. You will attend mandatory therapy, like all of our male-born princesses. You also have access to 1 term medical leave of absence, to be spent as a Princess in the ’Asile Pour Enfants’ recovering from mental fatigue, physical illness or trauma. Along with the expulsion, you may voluntarily withdraw from the Academy.”

The head mistress of L’Académie paused and gave him a very serious look.

...the seconds ticked by for 2,3,4 breaths...

“Good, you are staying present now.” She let a small, solemn smile grace her face.

Continuing, she explained, “Not all children who receive Scholarships can be successful at L’Académie pour les Dauphines. We try to give each Scholarship child the best chance to become a Princess. For those who are not able to follow this path, if you return to your family, you will return to your boyhood and your memories of your time here will be sealed. If you end up choosing to live at the ’Asile Pour Enfants‘ you will be given the chance to live as you choose, either a Princess or a boy, and your memories will not be sealed. Finally, should you choose to successfully complete your studies here at L’Académie, you will live the rest of your life as a Princess.”

The Madame paused and said, “Raffaelle, please go rest and thoroughly read your handbook. There will be a test tomorrow. You must pass the test to remain in the program.”

Raf sat for a moment, stunned.

A test? Already?
What had he gotten himself into?

“Thank you, madame,” he said.

Slowly, carefully, he rose, smoothed his pinafore, pivoted and left her office.

Behind her desk, the Madame sat for half a dozen minutes with an inscrutable expression upon her face after her newest scholarship student left the office.

Outside the office, Raf leaned up against the wall and drew a shuddering breath. He slid down to a sitting position and hugged his knees, hiding his tears, quietly crying...

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Please let me know if there are any corrections that “I kneed 2 make.” Also, this experience felt complete to me but I could share some of his other experiences at The Princess Academy if anyone is interested... (I’ve never written much so that’s why I say this... )