Introduction - About my name

I have a confession to make. I love reading the advice columns in the newspaper. You know, the words written by women to comfort other women. Each morning, I grab the morning newspaper section containing the national favorite, “Dear Abby.” and our local “Ask Phoebe.”

Mom and I often talk about some of the advice given the women and girls, most of whom seem worried about relationships with men. I usually find one woman’s question so compelling that I begin to wonder how I would feel if I was that woman. Actually my feelings about being the questioner arises more often when it involves a teenage girl. I confess that I have even been known to cry as my imagination runs off, thinking of myself as that girl in love with a boy who won’t even notice her.

Why should my empathy bother me? Well, you see: I’m a boy.

I often question whether I am a boy, especially when I think I'm a girl. It’s true that I act like a girl and sometimes I even dress like a girl.

I've always been a bit different and that's always bothered me. I have no real friends, except for Cindy, the girl who lives next door and is a year ahead of me in school. But now Cindy has a boyfriend and she's on the high school basketball team, so she's not around much for our friendly get-togethers. Don't get the wrong idea! Cindy and I not lovers at all, just friends.

Mom says not to worry; she says, "You're special, my darling," and hugs me.

Even though I'm now sixteen and about to begin my junior year in high school, I still love being hugged by mom. Besides Cindy, she's my only real friend, and I spend a lot of time with mom, since she’s often lonely. Dad’s gone a lot, usually for several weeks at a time; he works as a setup engineer for a company that builds huge mining and drilling equipment and often is sent to supervise the erection of the huge machines in countries throughout the world. So, mom and I have learned to enjoy each other’s company.

Oh, and I have a sister, too. Mustn’t forget Kelly, since she’s always treated me pretty good, which, I guess, is rare among older sisters who usually seem to make life difficult for little brothers like me. I loved to watch Kelly pretty herself up before her dates, and she used to tease me by threatening to put lipstick on me. “You’d make a pretty little girl, Perry,” she’d tell me. And I would yell “Aaargh,” and run from the room, even though deep down I kind of liked the idea.

And then there's my name: Pernod Pierpont Periwinkle. Was there ever a name more likely to encourage bullies or jokers?

I should hate the name. It's given me some trouble through the years. But, to be truthful, it's also made me feel just a bit special.

When I was a little kid, I got to be called "Perry," and I thought that was pretty cool at the time. I liked the sound of "Perry," but it wasn't long before one the boys in my school teased me for having a girl’s name. “I’m not a girl,” I remember saying and I started to punch him. He easily parried my punch and soon wrestled me to the ground and pinning me flat, yelling, “See you’re a girl.” I was saved by my friend Cindy who pushed the bully off me, emphasizing that Perry was a perfectly good boy’s name.

But the incident bothered me and I began correcting people when they called me Perry. “Just call me Pernod,” I would tell them.

"But calling you Pernod is so weird," complained one girl to me in the 4th Grade.

Whether I liked it or not, my name was henceforth Perry, and I soon became used to it.

I learned eventually that mother, who always had pretensions of being royalty, wanted her son to be "above the crowd" and "something special," as she explained it to me one day when I was twelve. Apparently, she had seen bottles of pernod, which is an absinthe, while she was in France as a teenager and had been enamored with the name. To mom, the name seemed both elegant and different, probably because she first heard it in French (where it’s pronounced “PURR-no,” without the “d” sound; Americans mostly pronounce it more harshly, with the “d”).

The Pierpont, it seemed, came from J. Pierpont Morgan, the great late 19th Century banker, and she must have thought it added greater elegance to her lovely son. Periwinkle, I knew, was my dad's family name and there's not much I can do about that.

So I'm Pernod Pierpont Periwinkle – and please don't laugh.

1 - Our New Venture

Until Cindy got her boyfriend (Josh Harrington was a nice enough boy, I guess, but I didn't like how he was beginning to monopolize her time), she and I just loved to hang around together, talking, listening to music, dabbling online and sometimes riding off on our bikes to loll around in the park.

On one boring summer day, we were clowning around on the computer at my place, looking at some silly websites created for teen girls.

"Seems like all these girls are wired about something?" I queried.

"Yeah, boyfriends or lack of them, how they look and fights with other girlfriends," she agreed.

"I got an idea," I said. "Let's create our own blogsite for teens. We could answer their questions and advise them, right?"

Cindy giggled. She was a pale girl, just now losing her baby fat as she began maturing into a shapely young woman. She had a round face and full cheeks that hardly marked her as being beautiful, but cheerful blue eyes provided an interesting and provocative face. Like most girls, she was a bit self-conscious about her weight (as was I!) and we used to nag each other about taking that extra cookie or ordering a shake to go with our Big Charlie, the oversized hamburger served at Charlie's Dugout.

"You mean we'd be like 'Dear Abby?'"

"Sure, why not?"

And thus, the site, "Ask Perry and Cindy" was born.

*****

To show you how stupid I was, I didn't realize that our readers would think I was a girl; I just thought Perry would be taken for a boy’s name, even though I had seen how sometimes I had been thought to be a girl from my name.

We started off the first two entries in our blogsite by thinking up questions that some kids might ask and then trying to answer them. We had a simple formula: the question would be posed by some reader and then we'd take turns answering, even disagreeing with each other at times. We giggled a lot doing it.

Finally, we got a question from Puzzled in Fargo, North Dakota:

"My boyfriend, I'll call him Jason, is very sweet and is very nice to me. We've been dating since our freshman year and now I'm a junior and even my parents like him. The problem is that I could lose a little weight – not much – but enough to fit into a really hot prom dress. If I don't lose some weight, I'll look so yucky in the dress. But Jason says I shouldn't lose any weight. He likes me as I am so he's got something to hug. I think there's too much of me to hug. What should I do?"

After that, our blog continued in this format:

Cindy: "It depends upon how much overweight you are, Puzzled. If your boyfriend really is as nice as you say he is and you feel you should be thinner, go do your dieting and exercise. He'll probably like the results. If he really cares about you, then he'll still like you. He will be happy that you're happy."

Perry: "Isn't it pretty cold up there in Fargo? Don't you need a little insulation? Keep the weight on."

Cindy: "Now Perry, that's mean."

Perry: “I didn’t want to be mean, just to raise the question about whether Puzzled in Fargo really wants to lose weight, or if she’s doing it because of looks. Maybe she should forget about getting a dress that's fits too snug and find a nice outfit that befits her figure. She should listen to her boyfriend and just be herself. As long as she’s healthy, and not too overweight, I don’t see she should worry about it. I know I could lose a bit of weight, but I’m not sure I’ll be comfortable being any thinner.”

Cindy: “I doubt I’ll ever see you in a Size 6, Perry. But to answer Puzzled’s question: Listen to your own mind. Regardless of your decision, if your boyfriend truly likes you, he’ll like you skinny or chubby. Just don’t let yourself get either too fat or too thin, since both are bad for your longtime health.”

Perry: “I agree with Cindy. Follow your own heart. Best of luck, Puzzled in Fargo.”

And, so the repartee went and soon we were surprised to find that the readers loved it, and our hits grew and grew and we got dozens of questions each week, far too many to use and answer.

One day we got a query that bothered us. "Why don't you two girls show a picture of yourselves? You claim to be high school girls, but how do we know you're not two dirty old men?"

"What? We never said we were both girls?" I said to Cindy.

"No, we didn't, but then Perry really could also be a girl's name, you know.”

"Yeah. I never thought of that, but really, how about Perry Mason and Perry Como? They were both guys."

“I guess, but I never heard of them,” Cindy said.

“Haven’t you ever seen reruns of Perry Mason on TV? He’s an attorney. And Perry Como is a singer from years ago. Mom has some vinyl recordings of him.”

“Never heard of them, but I’ve known several girls named Perry. In my class, there’s Perry Sheridan, and she’s a girl.”

I nodded, realizing I had a girl in my class, also named Perry.

(Research shows that in recent years Perry has been predominantly used to name boys, although it continues to be used for girls as well. An online survey showed that about 30% of respondents thought it a boy’s name; 27% a girl’s name and 33% as either a boy’s or girl’s name, with 10% indicating they didn’t know.)

"But she's got a point," Cindy said. "Maybe, we should show our faces."

I was shocked at the suggestion. How could I show my face? Our readers thought both of us were girls; what would they think?

“Cindy, I can’t show my face. We’re both expected to be girls, I guess. No one has addressed us as anything but two teenage girls. And I’m a boy. Won’t learning I’m a boy when they thought I was a girl would cause them to mistrust us and they’ll quit reading our blog?”

My friend said nothing for a long minute, looking at me carefully.

“You know, Perry, I’ve got an idea,” she said.

Cindy had a strange smile. I wasn’t sure I would like her ‘idea.’

*****

“The answer is simple, Perry,” Cindy said. “You’ll simply have to be a girl in the picture.”

“But I’m not a girl. I’m a guy.”

“Maybe so, but really I can easily see you as a girl, " she said, with a smile.

How could she see that in me? I wondered. I had kept my occasional cross-dressing a secret from everyone but mother. It was humiliating that Cindy might see me as a girl. Would she tell anyone else? Probably not, but perhaps she might inadvertently let the knowledge of my dressing seep out in conversation. Yet, it was also exhilarating to be taken for a girl.

Cindy pressed her point that I should picture myself as a girl on the blogsite.

“I don't want to hurt you, Perry, but you’re very pretty," she said.

I knew I must be blushing. And then she added:

"And you know you really think more like a girl. It’s no wonder our readers like your answers. Virtually all of the people who write in are girls and you seem to understand them as well as I do.”

I nodded. I had tried hard to answer the girls’ questions with full understanding of how they felt. Never would I belittle a girl, or try to make her question sound foolish; for some reason, I felt I understood how they were feeling. I guess I was a bit like many girls, since I was most vain about my weight; I wished I could wear tight jeans, but found the roll of fat on my tummy and my somewhat chubby thighs made that difficult. I wasn’t really fat and actually was in the normal weight range for a boy of my height, but I seemed to have some extra flesh in my tummy area, hips and thighs. I really wasn’t very athletic and not too strong, something I had tried to remedy by joining the cross country team where I usually came in trailing the pack.

Also, I found myself empathizing with their questions about why they didn’t feel they were popular as other girls. I was never popular in school, often alone at playtime in grade school. Once I got to high school, I often sat alone in the cafeteria and I walked without a friend at my side in the hallways. No one gathered at my locker after school, asking me to join them in walking home. I remember crying easily at times, too. Recently, the boys at school began teasing me more than they had before.

Cindy was silent. She looked at me closely: “Really, Perry, you have a pretty face. I wished I was a pretty as you.”

I must have blushed. Cindy laughed. “I guess that’s a yes, then?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, hoping to make it a reluctant “yes.” I’m not sure I convinced her; I loved the thought of being a pretty girl.

She smiled and I could see she was pleased with my answer. I wondered, did Cindy perhaps wish that I was a girl? If so, I reasoned, maybe I could confess that I loved putting on girl’s clothing. It was a gamble.

“Cindy,” I began, talking slowly and deliberately. “Can you keep a secret?”

“For you, anything.”

“I like wearing girl’s stuff,” I said, feeling my face grow flush.

She smiled, and nodded slowly, almost knowingly.

“Is that OK?” I asked, worried about her answer.

“Why not? I like having a pretty girlfriend,” she said. “Besides, I was beginning to wonder about you anyway. Your hair was looking more girlish.”

We hugged and I began crying. When I dried my tears, I told her how mom had caught me in one of my sister Kelly’s nightgowns, and had occasionally let me dress up around the house, even helping me learn how to put on makeup, even though I had picked up the basics through watching her and following some clips on You Tube.

“I’m happy you’re not disgusted with me, Cindy,” I said when I finished my story.

“Why should I be? Now, I’ll be friends with the prettiest girl around,” she said.

(From the previous chapter) We hugged and I began crying. When I dried my tears, I told her how mom had caught me in one of my sister Kelly’s nightgowns, and had occasionally let me dress up around the house, even helping me learn how to put on makeup, even though I had picked up the basics through watching her and following some clips on You Tube.

“I’m happy you’re not disgusted with me, Cindy,” I said when I finished my story.

“Why should I be? Now, I’ll be friends with the prettiest girl around,” she said.

2 – Enraptured Boys

While I kept my hair fairly long so that it reached my collar, I had never tried to fashion it, merely being content to brush it and to let it hang a bit loosely. I had gotten into the habit of continually brushing it back from my face, and I guess that added to the perception that I might be a girl. My hair was brown and fairly full, but I never thought my hair could be as pretty as Cindy’s blonde tresses or Sylvia Perez’s jet black hair.

“Perry, I think I can fix your hair so that you’ll look really sweet,” Cindy said as we prepped ourselves to take our pictures for the site.

“OK, go for it, but I still need to have it look like a boy’s hair after this is over,” I said.

“Don’t worry,” she said.

I wasn’t too sure, but I accepted her assurances; she was my best friend and I didn’t think she’d do anything to shame me. I worried a bit as she fussed with it, even trimming it a bit with scissors. She worked some hair across my forehead, smiling and looking pleased with herself as she worked. Oh no, this is going to be awful, I thought.

“There it’s done,” she said fifteen minutes later. “Let’s see how you look.”

“Wow. That’s me?”

“Yes, young lady, that’s you,” she said. She was standing behind me as we looked into the mirror and we both smiled into the glass. She leaned over and kissed me lightly on the cheek.

“We’re the bestest of girlfriends now, Perry,” she said.

“I like that,” I said. We kissed again, this time a bit longer.

“Could we borrow a blouse or some type of top from your sister, Perry?” she asked. We were only going to do headshots, but it was apparent I’d probably need to wear something girlish, since my shoulders would probably show.

“I don’t think Kelly will care,” I volunteered. “She’s off to college and won’t be back now ’til Thanksgiving.”

As the two of us entered Kelly’s bedroom I tried not to betray how well I knew how to navigate her closets and dresser drawers. I let her blunder through the outfits.

“How’s this?” she asked pulling a sleeveless blouse from the closet. I almost gagged; the blouse she grabbed was one of my favorites and I had worn it several times during my moments as a teen girl. It was a light orange satiny pullover that fit tightly against my body and was highlighted with blue curlicue trim. It looked so feminine.

“It’s OK, I guess,” I said, trying to hide my enthusiasm.

“Maybe it’s not right for you, Perry,” Cindy said. “I think the top should be worn by a girl with breasts and you’re pretty flat.”

“I’ll wear it, Cindy. I like it, since the color will go good with my hair,” I said. “We won’t be showing my chest anyway in the picture, will we?”

Nonetheless, Cindy felt I should show some shape to my chest, so we searched through drawers until we found several old training bras that Kelly had stashed away. Cindy helped me put on the bra, and after stuffing some socks in each cup, I magically had breasts. I liked the feeling.

*****
The posting of our pictures brought an almost immediate growth in the number of hits that our site got. Unexpectedly, we found more and more boys writing in, and not all the messages included questions; some of the boys had other ideas. Here’s just a sample:

“Wow, Perry, you’re hot. Have you got a boyfriend? If not, I’m six feet tall, blonde and starting tight end on our football team. Write me at [email protected].”

“Perry. I have a juiced-up ’67 Ford Fairlane convertible. Come ride with me. Hotrod [email protected].”

“I’d like to bring you home to mom. [email protected].”

Virtually all of the boys sent along pictures of themselves, and I must say I found myself imagining how sweet it might be to be dancing, hugging and maybe even kissing some of them. Some, however, were truly embarrassing and, I guess, you’d call them x-rated. I found pictures of boy crotches to be disgusting. Needless to say, I didn’t respond to any of these nasty messages and trashed them all.

Cindy got a few such messages, too, but I got maybe three or four times more than she did. It was embarrassing and I began feeling so bad for Cindy; she was the sweetest, dearest of friends and I hated to see her hurt.

Cindy sensed my feelings and volunteered: “See I told you that you were the prettier of the two of us, didn’t I?”

“But it’s not right, Cindy. I’m a boy.”

“Not that I can see,” she said. We both giggled.

*****
It brought back memories: A year earlier, mother caught me in my sister’s nightgown one warm summer afternoon when she arrived home early from work. I had raided Kelly’s dresser and found a light almost translucent gown with thin straps over the shoulders and paraded in front of my mirror feeling totally girlish. Underneath, I wore panties (also taken from her). I had laid down on my bed after a while and day-dreamed over how sweet it was to be a soft, lovely girl; it was true, I had the fleshy, unmuscular body of a still to mature teen girl.

I had fallen asleep in my reverie. I awoke with a start when I felt someone nudge me. It was mother; I panicked. I bolted upright into a sitting position, feeling exposed and violated.

"Oh mom, I'm sorry," I screamed, beginning to cry.

She stood there for a moment, her puzzled expression turning into a smile.

"Mom, I'll never do it again," I said, blubbering through my sobs.

Mom continued to be silent. She studied me, still smiling and then reached to find a tissue from the nightstand. She handed it to me, "Here, wipe your eyes, my pretty girl."

She sat next to me and hugged me tightly.

"That's OK honey," she said gently. "I've suspected you might be borrowing Kelly’s clothes for some time now."

"Are you mad at me, mother?"

"Yes, because you sneaked into Kelly’s room. That's being a thief and being dishonest," she said, her voice growing stern.

"I was afraid of what you'd say."

“That’s exactly why shouldn’t lie to me, Perry, and also you can imagine what your father would say if he saw you like this.”

I hung my head; my father, who was naturally athletic, would be furious, I felt. Dad had been gone for over a month to erect a giant excavator at a mine in Brazil, but was to return within a few days. After such prolonged trips, he’d be home for several weeks at a time, before he’d be sent out again. Dad was really pretty nice to me, except for his constant nagging that I keep my hair trimmed. To satisfy him, I was always careful not to let it get too long.

“Don’t tell daddy,” I said.

“I won’t, but you must tell mother about your feelings," she continued her voice softer now. "Do you like wearing Kelly’s clothes?"

"Yes, mother, but I know I shouldn't 'cause I'm a boy."

"Hmmm, yes you are, but you're also a very pretty girl, darling."

"I am?" I asked, clearly flattered by her comment.

"But if you're going to dress up like a girl, I guess you’d better do it properly," she said smiling.

“Mother, you really don’t mind?”

She paused before replying. “Yes, I do mind a bit because we thought we were raising a son and not a girl as pretty as you. It’s just such a shock. Do you really like posing as a girl?”

“Yes, mother,” I replied sheepishly. “And, mother, when I’m all dressed up I feel I am not posing. I feel I am a girl. In fact, I like being a girl.”

“Well, for now, Perry, get out of your sister’s things and get into your boy clothes,” she ordered.

I wanted to cry. I thought mom might understand, but I’m not sure she did. I knew my dad wouldn’t understand.

*****
On Saturday, two days after mom caught me in Kelly’s nightgown, she said to me as she served me pancakes for breakfast, “I still can’t believe that you’d sneak into Kelly’s room and put on her clothes, even her panties.”

“Mom, I told you I won’t wear any of her stuff again,” I repeated, even though I wasn’t sure I could live up to my words.

“That’s a promise I’ll hold you to, Perry.”

“OK.”

She returned to the stove to scoop up several of the pancakes, placing them on my plate. She looked at me quizzically, “Are you truly serious that you like dressing as a girl? And that sometimes you even think you’re a girl?”

I looked down at the plate of pancakes before me. I was afraid to answer the question; I felt I was serious about the desire, but I had no idea what the consequences would be should I admit it. After all, I was a boy, everyone expected me to be a boy.

“Well?” she pressed the question.

I nodded.

“Is that a yes? You wish you were a girl?”

“Yes, mother.”

It was funny. The instant I admitted to it, I felt like a weight had been lifted from me, that I was exposing my true self and that somehow everything would work out in the end.

“OK, Perry, I guess I understand,” mother said. “Maybe we ought to give you a chance to try it out, but we’ll have to do it properly. No more raiding Kelly’s room and no more lying to me.”

“You mean it mom? Thank you, thank you.”

“Finish your pancakes and sausage, darling, and then we’ll go shopping for your own lingerie, so get dressed when you’re done with your pancakes.”

“You mean we’ll buy my own panties and bras and gowns?”

“Every girl needs her own things, doesn’t she?”

I gulped down the rest of my food and rushed upstairs to dress.

“Today, honey, and only today, you can wear some of Kelly’s stuff,” she said. “You can wear a pair of her jeans and pick out a cute top. I’ll be up in a few minutes to fix your hair.”

“But, mother, you mean go outside as a girl? I can’t do that. People will know.”

“Just do it. You want to be a girl. Now you’ll have to see what it’s like.”

“But, I might meet someone from school,” I protested.

“Don’t be such a ninny. Believe me, you’ll just look like a typical teen girl.”

*****
From that day on and whenever my dad was gone on one of his long trips, mother occasionally let me wear my girl clothes. She even helped me to look pretty. We had already created a modest wardrobe, including a nice plaid skirt, a white blouse with a collar and a fluffy sweater. I even had a half dozen panties, ballet flats, panty hose and simple faux pearl necklace. A few days earlier, we picked up two size 34-A bras and cheap breast forms. She taught me to apply light color to my face, a neutral shade of lipgloss to fluff up my lips and a modest bit of eye shadow.

From that time on mother took me to the Uptown Salon to have my hair trimmed and styled. At first I resisted going there, but the ladies there treated me with great attention and respect. They styled my hair into a page boy that could be considered to be quite androgynous. "Your classmates will still see you as a boy, but others might see you as a girl," Beatrice, the salon's owner and a friend of mom's, said. "Is that OK?"

"I guess, Miss Beatrice."

"You are a very pretty boy, Perry," the salon owner said, smiling.

After my hair styling began, it turned out that I was usually called "miss" or "young lady" by strangers; for a while, I wondered whether I should correct them, but then thought the better of it. If they thought I was a girl, so what? I even began feeding into the image by walking more erect and taking shorter steps, bringing about a natural feminine sway to my motion. Mother and I went shopping for clothing that might be considered androgynous; I took to wearing girls’ jeans that actually fit me more comfortably than boy jeans due to their taper and wider hip size.

We restricted my girlish moments to those periods of time when dad was gone. During his weeks at home, I chose my boy clothes and tried to dress in a more masculine manner; we went so far as to have my hair cut and put into a more boyish style a few days before he returned home. Of course, we hid my stash of feminine clothes.

It surprised me how easily I slipped into the life as a teenaged girl; though I had yet to venture out in public in a skirt or dress — still choosing the androgynous look — I found boys looking at me, often smiling and sometimes sensed their eyes following me as a walked by. I was apparently a pretty girl in their eyes. What a great feeling! And a scary one, too!

(From previous chapter) It surprised me how easily I slipped into the life as a teenaged girl; though I had yet to venture out in public in a skirt or dress — still choosing the androgynous look — I found boys looking at me, often smiling and sometimes sensed their eyes following me as a walked by. I was apparently a pretty girl in their eyes. What a great feeling! And a scary one, too!
3 - Discovered

It was bound to happen. Some of the girls at our school had discovered our blogsite; after all, the site had grown popular among teenage girls all over the English-speaking world. Soon, Cindy and I began overhearing chatter among the girls at school about how much they liked the “Ask Perry and Cindy” blog. It wasn’t too long before Cindy was approached by several girls, inquiring whether she was the “Cindy” in the blog. She felt it best not to lie and agreed it was her; then she was besieged with questions about who that cute girl, Perry, was. She remained loyal to me, and refused to answer.

It was Sylvia Perez who figured it out at first. She approached me at my locker one afternoon at the end of the school day.

“Can I talk to you, Perry?” she asked, acting strangely hesitant and a bit embarrassed.

“Sure,” I replied, surprised at the invitation.

“Not here, but let’s walk home together. I live in your direction,” she said.

I wondered what this was all about; certainly she was not walking with me because she wanted me to be her boyfriend. She was too pretty to want a loser like me as her date. We were a block away from school, when she said, “Perry, you must be that girl in the Perry and Cindy blog.”

“Me?” I replied quickly, ready to deny the whole idea.

“Who else? You and Cindy have always been friends and I’ve begun thinking that you look so much like the girl in that picture,” she said.

“Oh no,” I said, beginning to cry. (Wasn’t that just like a girl?)

“Oh Perry, oh my dear. I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt you. Some of the girls are already talking about it.”

I tried to look at Sylvia and we stopped walking, right there on 15th Street. I burst out in tears. It would be horrible. I’d have to quit school.

Sylvia hugged me as I cried. I felt weak and helpless in her arms.

“No one wants you to be hurt, except maybe a couple of bullies,” Sylvia began, as my crying finally subdued.

“I’m so scared, Sylvia,” I said.

“I know, Perry, but my girlfriends and I were talking and we all like you and they wanted me to sound you out.”

Sylvia reached into her book bag, found some tissues and tenderly wiped my face clean. “You have a very pretty face, Perry. You don’t want to ruin it with tears.”

I smiled.

“And you’re even prettier when you smile.”

“What do you want of me, Sylvia?”

“Well, we’d like to invite you, and Cindy, too, if she’d like, to be part of our group. You know, hang around with us just like you’re one of us.”

I guess my smile broadened since Sylvia’s eyes lit up.

“You mean, like I’d be one of the girls?”

“Of course, from what I’ve seen, you’re as much a girl as any.”

*****
I continued to attend school as a boy. Gradually, it seemed that my feminine mannerisms grew and I did little to hide them. I also became part of a group of girls who chummed around together, eating at the same table at lunch time and finding lots to giggle about. There wasn’t anything special about the girls except perhaps that they all were pretty good students. Celeste Mallory was from one of the wealthiest families in town, but the rest came from pretty ordinary backgrounds. There was Melanie Scouter, who would become my closest friend (after Cindy, of course); she was tall and athletic and wore her hair short in a boyish style; Heather Szymkowski was chubby and round and sometimes wore short skirts that exposed fleshy thighs (it was not good fashion, I thought). Sylvia Perez, a truly fetching girl, was always smiling, it seemed, and was a joy to be around: Ellen Halverson had long, flowing natural blonde hair and a fully developed figure, a situation that caused her personal embarrassment (she was right in her thinking since I had heard boys often joking and making rude comments about her hefty chest).

The girls proved to be my protective screen, trying to make sure several of them accompanied me in the hallways to ward off any bullies. I couldn’t have been happier as we talked about makeup and hairdos, clothes and heels, and, of course, boys. There were occasional snide remarks and several times when I felt physically threatened. Usually one of my girlfriends would show up and somehow shame the boys into backing off, but there were frightening moments, nonetheless.

In truth, once it was learned we were the authors of the popular advice site, Cindy and I became sort of celebrities in the school. Most of the students expected me to be girlish and I was only too happy to oblige. The teasing and the comments often were hurtful, but thankfully my teachers were quick to pounce on anyone who threatened me. I think most of them liked me, since my grades were generally pretty good and I was respectful in class.

Mr. Powers, however, was a bit confused by my new look. He was our English literature teacher and he was an anomaly in the school in that he always wore a suit, a bowtie and a handkerchief in his coat pocket. Most of the teachers seemed to be in a constant “dress-down” style, the women in slacks and sometimes even sweatpants, and the men wearing everything from wrinkled pants and jeans to shorts when the weather was warm. Mr. Powers made quite a sight, appearing frankly to look more like the butler in “Downton Abbey” than a high school teacher. Nonetheless, this strange-looking man won the attention and respect of his students, perhaps because of the way in which he could bring the old literary giants to life. He truly loved teaching, and that must have affected us all. He addressed us formally, as Mr. Jones or Miss Smith. On the second day of my new look, he looked at me, about to address me and paused:

“Ah, Mr. Periwinkle . . . or is it Miss Periwinkle?”

It was a humiliating moment and I paused, not sure how to answer. “I’m sorry, sir. Mister is OK.”

The students tittered and I heard someone say: “Obviously, that’s a miss.” And another, “How pathetic is that?”

“Quiet, class,” Mr. Powers said in his precise measured tone. “Let’s celebrate Mr. Periwinkle’s difference today. I find it quite refreshing to see an expression of independence in a young man.”

Surprisingly, the class quieted down; in spite of his fastidious, old-fashioned “schoolmaster” appearance, Mr. Powers was able to control even the unruly students. Mr. Powers was truly an exceptional teacher, in spite of his unusual manner of dressing, proof again that looks can be deceiving.

*****
Among the few boys who wrote to our blog with questions, one boy got my attention. He identified himself as “Jamie from Ft. Smith, Arkansas.”

He wrote in with a problem that I was familiar with: loneliness.

“I am not sure you girls can help me. Have you ever been lonely? It seems like I always am. I go to school but I don’t seem to have any friends. I sit alone in the cafeteria and no one talks to me. Ever.

“I’m 16 and I guess I think I must look strange or something. But mom says I look like a normal boy, and I probably do. I try to say HI to kids and they might say HI back and that’s about it. What can I do?” Jamie in Ft. Smith.

I felt compelled to answer him in my very next blog:

“Jamie in Ft. Smith: If it’s any consolation to you, I often feel lonely and alone. I suspect lots of boys and girls our age (I’m also 16) feel the same way, but your situation seems to be more serious than most.

“My offhand advice, without knowing you better, is to get involved in some clubs, either at school, your church (if you go to one) or some teen club, like the Boys and Girls Club in your city. (You have such a club in Ft. Smith. An internet search will tell you how to reach them.)

“Do you have any hobbies or do you have stuff you like to do, like painting or writing, or biking or whatever? Get involved.

“You seem like a shy boy, but you sound very nice to me. I believe you likely have much to offer in a friendship. The biggest thing is: Don’t feel sorry for yourself. That’ll just get you feeling ever more lonely. Let me hear from you and perhaps if you tell me more about yourself and your concerns, I might be able to help you lose this feeling of loneliness. Best of luck, Perry.”

I hadn’t expected it, but Jamie’s question roused great interest among our readers and dozens wrote in comments, most all of them sharing similar feelings of loneliness, often having to do with being excluded from various cliques in their schools. Many felt they were inadequate, often due to the fact that they felt they were ugly, fat or didn’t have nice clothes.

Again, virtually all of those who replied were girls; only two were boys and neither one confessed to feeling lonely; instead they urged Jamie to go out for football. (Incidentally, several girls replied to those two boys critically, saying they were “stupid” or “ignorant.” “You don’t have to play football to attract girls,” one wrote.)

In my next blog, I referred to the heavy responses we got from Jamie’s question, addressing him directly in my published response:

“You’ll see, Jamie, that you’re not alone. The feeling among so many of us in these teen years is that we need to be ‘one of the crowd’ and that you can’t be an independent spirit.

“Many famous people have been loners in their earlier days; rather than feel sorry for themselves, however, they made good use of their time by using their brains and abilities to learn new things, refine their skills and to be creative. Of course, we need friends we can share our life with, but I believe such friendships will develop as we learn more about ourselves.

“Again, I invite you to tell me more about yourself. If you wish, mark your message ‘personal’ and I won’t publish your remarks. Again, best to you, Perry.”

*****
More than a week went by before I heard from Jamie. It came as a short email that he headed “PERSONAL”

“Hi, Perry, I really need to hear from you. Even with all the kind words you wrote and all those who replied, I still feel so alone. I must admit that I sometimes even cry at night. Something must be wrong with me. I’m a boy and I shouldn’t cry.

“My dad got a new job and we only moved to Ft. Smith at the start of the school year. I used to live in Chicago and my folks aren’t rich but we live a nice life. In Chicago I was sent to a private academy. How I hated it! Everyone was a snob. I thought it’d better in my new place and I’m in the public high school, but I’m not like anyone here, it seems. Dad and mom say to ‘give it time.’ No one has bullied me or teased me; they’ve all been nice, I guess, but I just don’t fit in.

“Thank you for reading this. You don’t have to waste your time on me. Your friend, Jamie.”

Of course, after that message, I felt I must “waste my time” on him. It took about a half dozen more email exchanges to learn much more about Jamie. In one of his later emails, he sent me several “selfies” of himself. I was surprised that he was a remarkably good-looking boy; he had light-brown wispy hair with a cute cowlick that he apparently had trouble taming. He was light-complexioned, probably due to his heritage (He told me once he was mostly Norwegian). His most arresting features were his shy smile and bright blue eyes; he was somewhat myopic and wore rimless glasses that gave him a slightly studious appearance. He was slender, obviously sinewy, apparently due to the fact that he liked to run.

“You’re very good-looking,” I responded to him one night.

“No, I’m not,” he wrote back immediately. “You’re just saying that to be nice.”

We then began a quick exchange of short emails that night.

Me: “I’m being honest with you. In fact, if you were in my school and if you asked me to the prom, I’d be happy to accept. I’d be surprised if any girl would refuse, unless of course they already had a boyfriend.”

Jamie: “Do you have a boyfriend?”

Me: “That’s my business.”

Jamie: “Then you’re just saying this to make me feel good. You wouldn’t go with me after all.”

Me: “OK. To answer you. I don’t have have a boyfriend right now.” (I could have said I’ve never had a boyfriend or girlfriend in my life; I’d never been on a date. Cindy and I were just friends, not in a relationship.)

Jamie: “Will you go with the Harvest Dance with me next Saturday?”

Me: “I’d love to, but Jamie, you’re more than 600 miles away from me.”

Jamie: “See that’s just an excuse. What if I get dad to buy your plane ticket down here? Would you come then?”

Me: “Giggle, giggle.”

Jamie: “I’m serious. Dad works for the airlines and could work something out to get you here. Where are you located?”

Me: “You’re awful pushy. I can’t imagine why you’re having trouble making friends down there.”

Jamie: “I don’t know. It just seems I can talk to you. I’m afraid to ask a girl on a date. She’ll just laugh at me. I’m not good enough.”

Me: “I like you very much, Jamie, and I believe any girl you ask out would be flattered.”

(I meant that: he was cute. I wanted to hug him and try to smooth down the cowlick at the top of his head.)

Jamie: “Please come to the Harvest Dance. I’ll ask dad tonight and see if he agrees.”

Me: “Jamie, that’s unrealistic. I’m sure my mother would only say no. She’d tell me we don’t know each other well enough.”

Jamie: “I suppose you’re right.”

Me: “Now, is there some girl in your town you might like to go to the Harvest Dance with?”

Jamie: “I can’t think of . . . yes, I think I might ask Mary Ann Higgins. She’s in my English class and we sit next to each other. She talks to me.”

Me: “Good. Ask her, promise me you will.”

Jamie: “I’ll try. But I’d rather have you come with me. You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever met.”

Me: “Don’t be fooled by a picture, Jamie.”

Jamie: “I bet you’re even prettier in person.”

Me: “Time for bed here. I’ve enjoyed this. Bye bye, now please ask Mary Ann tomorrow. OK?”

Jamie: “No promises.”

He signed off with the kissing emoji.

*****
I lay in my bed that night, dreaming of dancing with Jamie; how sweet it would be! He said I was the “prettiest girl” and that so excited me. He really meant it, I was certain. And he was cute; he even had a few freckles on his nose and cheeks. I wanted to cuddle him so badly.

“You talk like you have a crush on that Jamie,” Cindy said the next day when I told her of my exchange with the boy.

I guess I blushed, since Cindy nodded knowingly. She read me like a book, I knew.

“He needs help, Cindy,” I said, trying to blunt her suppositions.

Cindy ignored my obviously phony protests, merely commenting: “He is kinda cute.” I couldn’t agree more.

*****
I was pleased to learn that Jamie (whose full name, he told me, was James G. Jansson) asked Mary Ann Higgins to the Harvest Dance and that she accepted. In the days before the dance, Jamie and I agreed to begin using the phone for our talks and I fell in love with his voice. His voice was surprisingly deep and masculine, but he spoke in a hesitant, unsure way, sometimes stuttering, which soon seemed to go away as our conversations became more frequent, and sometimes a bit intimate, I’m afraid to say.

“We had fun at the dance and Mary Ann’s a nice girl, but I still like you more,” Jamie said in a phone call we had on the Sunday following the dance.

“Jamie, enough of that. Follow up with Mary Ann. She likes you.”

“When I graduate high school, I’m going to college where you are going, Perry, and we can be boyfriend-girlfriend then.”

I must admit that felt my panties grow moist at his expectations. (Yes, I wore panties on days when I wasn’t having gym in school.)

“That’s a long way off,” I said.

“I still wanna marry you someday, Perry,” he said.

“Now come on, Jamie. We’re just kids. This is just puppy love.”

“No it’s not and I think you love me, too, but you’re afraid to admit it.”

“We’ve still never met and once you knew all about me, you might change your mind.”

“No I won’t. You’re in my thoughts all the time.”

I hated to admit it, but Jamie was in my thoughts all the time as well. The prospect of being college lovers was exciting and the prospect of being his wife was absolutely overwhelming. The truth that I was still a male hovered over us like an all-encompassing doom; of course, Jamie was still very much in the dark about that. I can’t imagine his reaction when he’d learn I’m still physically a boy.

I kept my cool, and merely said, “I like you very much, Jamie, but let’s leave it at that for now.”

We gave each other noisy telephonic kisses and said good night.

*****

Mom began questioning why I always seemed to charge off to my bedroom every night shortly after nine o’clock, even on Sunday nights when we traditionally watched “Masterpiece Theater” together. We had followed the BBC’s soap-opera, Downton Abbey, with particular interest where I often found myself crying at the joys or sadness of the inhabitants of the estate of Lord Grantham.

“I thought you cared about Mary’s new relationship,” mom questioned me one cold February Sunday night, as I slipped out of the living room couch about ten minutes into the program. Mom, of course, was referring to the Granthams’ widowed daughter and her budding relationship with a race driver.

“That’s OK, mom, I’ll catch up with the program in its replays on Tuesday night. I got something to do,” I said, darting up to my room before I had to explain further.

Shutting the bedroom door, I turned on the small television set on my dresser to continue watching Downton Abbey. Watching the screen, I stripped down to my panties and put on my silky nightgown; it had an elaborate lace bodice, thin straps over the shoulders and a light feminine feel. Sadly, the room was chilly, and I found I needed to put on my flannel robe. I hated doing it; it ruined the effect, I thought. But that’s price of being in Wisconsin in February.

I reclined on my bed, watching the screen, growing excited and impatient. The phone buzzed. I picked it up hardly before the first buzz ended and said breathlessly, “Jamie.”

“Yes, who else? One of your many boyfriends?”

“You know there’s nobody else. You got your TV on?”

“Yes. It’s so much fun spending Sunday night with you, just like we’re married,” he said, speaking softly so as not to override the voices on the television set.

It had become our custom when Downton Abbey began this season to watch the show together; largely we’d not say much except for occasional comments about the action on the screen. It felt so intimate and for some reason those minutes on the phone enhanced my own sense of my girlhood. Jamie was my lover and I was his girl.

*****
Mom came into the room just as the program ended; I was still talking to Jamie, cooing to his warm, sweet words, when she rapped on the door, entering it without waiting for my reply.

“Gotta go, Jamie,” I said breathlessly.

“OK, your mom coming?”

“Uh huh,” I said, disconnecting the call.

“Who was that, dear?” mom asked.

“Oh, nobody.”

Mom laughed. “It’s never just nobody, dear.”

I just blushed.

“It was a boy, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” I said, sheepishly, ashamed to admit it.

“What did I tell you about taking up with boys? You’re not ready, Perry.”

Mother was right. She and I had agreed that as I began taking on a more feminine role it would not be safe for me to enter into any relationships with boys. While I looked and acted like any other teenage girl, I still had my male organs and once a boy found out they were dating a girl that was still a boy physically, I could be in danger of being beaten up or harassed. I had yet to go to a doctor to discuss my gender status, still having doubts if I was ready to transition into girlhood.

“I’m not taking up with him, mother. He lives 600 miles away and we’re just online friends.”

“You sounded pretty intimate in that call, Perry,” she said sternly.

“I like him lots, mom, and he’s sad. He needs me,” I pressed.

“Oh my God, you’re the mothering type,” she said.

I know I must have blushed. Mom sat down next to me on the bed and began gently playing with my hair.

“You know, Perry dear. You’re truly a sweet young lady. Now tell me about this boy.”

We returned to the kitchen and mother ordered me to sit at the table. She surprised me by reaching into the cupboard and pulling out two wine glasses and then withdrawing bottle of rose wine.

“You know I don’t encourage drinking at your age, but we can make allowances for special occasions. And this, dear Perry, will be our first mother-daughter talk and I feel it’s a special occasion.”

“Thank you, mother. I love you.”

I told her all about Jamie. She had known about Cindy and my blogsite and was not too happy with the project, since she felt I was misrepresenting myself as a girl. But since I showed her I never proclaimed myself to be a girl and that my readers just assumed it, she grudgingly permitted it to continue, as long as I didn’t expose myself publicly or get into any items involving sex or pornography.

It was nearly midnight when I finally went to bed that night. I was so happy; mom finally recognized me as a girl. Why else would she have called it our "first mother and daughter talk?" There would be more to come!

(Great thanks to Eric for his great editing, particularly in making certain the author tells a consistent story)

Chapter 4 – My Dilemma

I could sense that Jamie was excited about something when he called me, breathlessly, late in the evening on Easter Sunday.

“I hope you had a nice day, Perry,” he said, his words coming so fast that they nearly ran over each other. There was something unusually rushed about it.

“Yes, I did have a great day. Thank you, and how was yours?”

“Oh my God, you’re not going to believe this,” he said, his voice rising in both volume and register.

“What?” I asked. “Just slow down and tell me why you’re so out of breath.”

He paused a minute, and I waited patiently, wondering if he’d ever get around to telling me what was on his mind. Slowly, he related that his grandparents had been visiting for the Easter holiday period – a fact he had told me a hundred times, since he loved them so much. He reminded me that they lived just about seventy miles from where I did in our mid-sized industrial city in southern Wisconsin, again a fact he had mentioned over and over, always indicating that if he lived with them, we’d be no more than an hour and a half apart.

“And guess what, Perry?”

“What is it? Tell me Jamie.”

“They’ve invited me to spend the summer with them and we talked it over and my parents are OK with it. Just think, we’ll be together this summer. I can hardly wait.”

“Really?” I said.

“You don’t sound too excited. Why aren’t you excited?” he pressed.

I quickly recovered, realizing he expected his online girlfriend to jump head over heels in joy at the prospect.

“I am excited, Jamie. It’s just that it’s such a shock,” I said, hoping I had sounded more enthusiastic.

Truth be told: I was enthralled with the idea of being a sought-after girl by what I thought was a cute, friendly boy. Trouble was: he still believed I was a real girl, not a sissy boy who was a girl in mind but not body. As he described how we could arrange to meet during the summer, a knot grew in my tummy.

“I already checked,” he said. “There’s a bus to your city that I can take regularly. Or, you can take to come to see me. Gramps said he’d gladly pick you up at the bus station. They’re so eager to meet you, Perry. I’ve told them so much about you and they’ve seen your picture. They think you’re just the cutest girl.”

“Even cuter than Mary Ann?” I chided him.

“She can’t hold a candle to you, Perry,” he said.

“I don’t know about that. She looks awful cute to me,” I said honestly. He had shown me several pictures of the girl, including a selfie of the two of them sitting together at a high school basketball game and they made a truly handsome couple. At my encouragement, the two had been dating fairly steadily, but Jamie kept saying it was only because I urged him to do so. I knew his budding friendship with Mary Ann was helping to draw him out of his shell; he was obviously a much happier boy.

“Well, she’s all right,” he finally acknowledged. “But don’t change the subject. I’ll be up by you this summer and besides I like you the best.”

“OK, Jamie. Have it your way, but don’t get too interested in me. You might not like me when we meet in person and I can tell Mary Ann is a sweet girl for you.”

“Don’t say that, Perry. Don’t you like me?”

“Let’s not go there now. We’ll talk more about this later, besides it’s late now.”

He grudgingly agreed to say goodnight. Our usual closing kiss was much shorter than before.

*****

When I told Cindy about the phone call the next day, she had begun to raise my suspicions about Jamie, planting a fear over the boy’s motives and also if he was really who he said he was.

“Something seems wrong about that guy, Perry,” she said. “Wasn’t he talking about marrying you almost right away?”

I had admitted that he had done that, but I just thought it was idle boy bluster at the time and dismissed it.

“Well, what kind of a boy would propose to someone he never even met?” she reasoned.

“I didn’t take it seriously, Cindy,” I said defensively.

“I’d be wary of him, though, and I wouldn’t be so eager to meet him,” she continued. “Who knows what he’s after? Maybe he’s an axe killer or he’ll molest you.”

“No, no, he’s not like that at all, Cindy,” I protested.

“Well, just be careful,” she warned.

“Actually, Cindy, there’s something else that bothers me even more. He still thinks I’m a real girl, and I don’t know what he’ll do if he ever finds out about the boy thing.”

“You’ll have to tell him, Perry,” Cindy said, “and do it before he ever meets you in person.”

“He wanted me to be his girlfriend. Oh, he’s so sweet and sincere, how can I tell him and disappoint him?” I asked, pleading with her to somehow come up with a magic solution. “There’s gotta be a way, Cindy.”

“No, honey, there isn’t,” she said firmly.

"And you know, Cindy, I felt I loved him, like I was a real girl in love with a wonderful boy.”

“You really felt deeply about Jamie, I could tell. Yes, dear, you’re a girl in love.”

“But that’s just it. I am not a girl.”

I began to cry; we were sitting together on my bed and I collapsed into her arms and she hugged tightly, rocking me as a mother would do to calm a crying young child. Finally, I broke from her warm, loving grasp. Cindy helped me compose myself, using several tissues to dry my face; she fixed my makeup and I felt a little better.

“I know what I must do, Cindy,” I said, my voice taking on a firmness that surprised me. “I’ll tell him tonight. Everything.”

The next eight hours before our scheduled call dragged by slowly, every minute seeming to weaken my resolve. Maybe I should just fade into the woodwork and slink away never to be seen again, leaving Jamie to wonder what became of his online girlfriend. No, that wouldn’t be fair to a sweet boy who presumably loved me. No, he didn’t love me, Perry, the sissy boy; he loved Perry, the fake girl.

*****
It was with trembling fingers that I sent a text message to Jamie early in the evening. “Jamie, let’s talk on Skype to night. OK?”

Almost immediately he replied: “Sure. Going to wear something sexy tonight?”

“I got to show you something.” Was my only response.

In preparation for the call, I decided to wear only a pair of sweat pants and a red Wisconsin Badger sweatshirt. I put on no makeup, and tied my hair in a ponytail, hoping to make myself as ordinary as I could, perhaps even to look more like a boy. In addition, I located my high school yearbook from the previous year that depicted the boys’ cross country team, with me standing in the back, clearly identified as Perry Periwinkle, sophomore. I dropped out of cross country in my junior year, largely due to my failure in keeping up with the others, but also because of my growing girlishness.

Jamie was shocked at my looks when we both signed on. He wasn’t mad, but the dear sweet boy was worried that I was sick. His concern for me was so touching, I almost gave up on my resolve to tell him the truth.

“No, Jamie, I’m feeling fine, it’s just that I need to tell you something. And, it’s important.”

I could see him scowl, apparently wondering what I was going to say. He had never before seen me so roughly dressed. I had always dressed for our Skype sessions in a lovely top of some sort. Recently I had taken to wearing not much more than a cami so as to expose my shoulders and arms. He loved how soft and smooth they appeared.

“Oh? You have a new boyfriend?”

“No, Jamie. Nothing like that. You’ve been my one and only boyfriend. Ever. The truth.”

“What then?”

I decided to plunge right ahead.

“I’m a boy,” I proclaimed firmly.

He looked at me hard for an instant. At first, my simple, direct declaration didn’t seem to register.

“You’re what?” he asked.

“Jamie. Listen to me. I never wanted to deceive you, but I am a boy. I have a penis and everything.”

“No, you’re not. You couldn’t be. My God, your body, your arms and shoulders, so lovely. No boy could be so pretty.”

I started to cry. This was torture for him I could see; it was also torture for me. I loved him so much.

“Don’t cry, dear Perry,” he said. “How could you be a boy?”

“Well I am, even if I’d rather be a girl,” I said. “Look at this.”

I held up the yearbook, open to the picture of the cross country team and set it up so that it filled the Skype screen. “See the boy standing at the right. That’s me last year.”

Looking at the split screen, I could see him squint, carefully examining the picture.

“Oh my God. That is you, but you even look like a girl in that picture.”

“Well, I’m not. Do you wanna see my penis? Do you need proof?”

Jamie shook his head.

“How could you do this? Lie like this? Lead me on?” he asked, his voice suddenly becoming angry.

“I couldn’t help it Jamie. It just happened . . .”

“I loved you, Perry, with all my heart. You helped me so much. Oh this is so bad. What’ll I do now?”

“I’m sorry, Jamie. So sorry. I’ve come to love you and I truly wanted to be your girlfriend.”

“How could you when you’re not a girl?”

“It’s not that simple, Jamie. Let me explain.”

With that his screen picture went black. Jamie was gone.

*****
Mom awoke me the next morning for school. I was still dressed in the sweats and had fallen asleep after what seemed like hours of sobbing on top of the duvet. My face was swollen and puffy, eyes red and watery. My hair was a ratted and tangled mess.

“What happened, dear?” she said, sitting down on the bed.

“Oh mother,” I said, sitting up and wrapping my arms about her in a big hug.

After a few minutes of warm hugs, I told mother the whole story.

Her first reaction was one of relief, even though she knew I was hurting from his rejection.

“Look, honey,” she began. “There was something weird about the boy, the way he latched onto you, even without ever meeting you. I was worried if he’d ever come to see you, not sure what he’d have in mind. Maybe, it’s just as good it’s over. It’s too soon for you to worry about boys.”

“Mom, you’re wrong,” I replied. “He was just a shy, but very nice.”

“Well, you’re such a sweet and welcoming girl, maybe too nice,” she said, hugging me even more tightly. “You have to be more cautious, honey, about opening up to everyone. You never know who you’ll meet on the internet.”

Mom was probably right, but that wasn’t what bothered me.

“Oh, Mother, I was so wrong. I was living a lie, trying to be a girl and lying to such a sweet boy like Jamie. He didn’t deserve me.”

“No darling, when you’re pretending to be a boy, you’re living a lie,” mother said.

“But . . . but . . .”

“No buts, darling Perry. You’re a girl deep inside. I know it and you know it. We’re going to have to do something to see if we’re both right, honey.”

“What?”

“It’s time we see a doctor.”

*****
A week later, my father returned home, this time from Uganda. Mother told me that he had to be told that I was considering living as a girl.

“He’ll be angry as hell, Perry,” she warned me.

“Do you have to, mom?”

“I’m afraid so and the sooner the better. If we wait too long and he learns about by accident he’ll be furious for sneaking around behind his back,” she explained.

I couldn’t argue with that and we prepared for the worst. Mom offered to tell him herself, without me being around, so as to blunt any potentially violent response. I felt I should be present, too, and I should be the one to tell him. For some reason, I felt my dad would be a perfectly reasonable man, even though he worked in a totally macho world among contractors and rough-speaking construction workers. Dad also was a scratch golfer (that meant he shot near par always) and loved being one of the boys. He had tried to get me interested in chasing the little white ball, but I had proven to be just as woefully deficient in golf as I had been with every other attempt I made at sports. I know he was disappointed in me, even though he tried to avoid showing his feelings.

I knew that my dad loved me, and I also knew him to be a person who thought things through and did research before making decisions. I hoped he’d consider the news that I considered myself a girl would prompt a loving and studious response.

We confronted him the day after his return from Uganda, when he’d finally recovered from the fatigue of the long trip back. Returning from school that afternoon, I found mom and dad sitting in the living room. It was obvious they were waiting for me.

“Your mother tells me that you have something important to tell me, Perry,” dad said, after I sat down in an upright side chair opposite the sofa.

My parents looked intensely at me, their coffee cooling on the cocktail table in front of the sofa upon which they were perched. I hesitated to corral my thoughts; the words should have come out easily since I had practiced them a hundred times. Mom had finally agreed with me that I should tell my dad; he should hear it from my lips. I knew my father appreciated straight-forward language.

“Yes, go ahead. I promised your mother I’d try to be understanding, even if I didn’t like what you’re telling me,” dad said, offering a smile that may have been just a bit forced.

“Dad,” I said, “I want to live as a girl.”

He looked back at me, saying nothing. His face seemed to be a blank.

“Dad, didn’t you hear me? I said I want to live as a girl and then as a woman. I am a girl not a boy.”

He still didn’t say anything, but examined me closely and then looked over to mom who sat rigidly, both hands folded in her lap.

“Did you know about this?” he asked my mother.

Mom told him everything, from the moment she caught me in Kelly’s nightgown, including the purchase of some of my own things and our girly nights together while he was traveling. She told him about transgendered women whose transitions occurred because of forces of nature over which they had no control.

“We’ve made an appointment with a specialist to assure that if Perry embarks on this road that it’ll be the right road for him,” she concluded.

“Well, I don’t like being kept in the dark about this, Maryann,” dad said finally.

“Jack, I really wanted to see how real Perry’s desires were. He’s been a far happier boy, or should I say, girl?”

“I’m not ready to accept this, but maybe I have only myself to blame since I’ve been gone so much. A boy should have a man around,” dad said.

“Jack, please don’t reject Perry and turn away from him,” mom pleaded.

“I’m not rejecting him. I’m just going out for a while,” he said, arising from the sofa. I looked at my dad, puzzled as to why he didn’t fly off in a rage, or at least begin telling me how disappointed and disgusted he was at hearing the news. He seemed stunned, a reaction that bothered me more than if he had cursed me out.

“Don’t go, Jack. Please understand,” mom said.

“Think I’ll go to the driving range and hit a bucket of balls, maybe two buckets,” he said. As he reached the door, he stopped, turned to look at me. “You coming, Perry?” he said.

“To hit golf balls?” I asked.

“Yes. Go change your clothes and get those golf clubs you got for your birthday. We’ll go in about ten minutes.”

“You want me to join you?”

“Yes, now hurry.”

I was puzzled and looked to mom. She nodded to show her agreement. After he left the room, mom came over to me and took my hands in hers. She said, “Your father loves you and he’s not a mean man, honey. He needs some time. Be nice to him, dear.”

I nodded, realizing she was right. Dad had never spanked me, had been patient at my ineptitude he took me out to play catch or shoot baskets or hit a golf ball. As I left to get the golf clubs and join my dad, I still felt anxious as to what my father had in store for me.

It wasn’t that I hated golf, it was that I was so pathetic at the game. It was humiliating to be on the course and watch my weak drives compare badly with the powerful pokes of other players. Of course, I was no better that afternoon, but dad worked with me to perfect my swings; he was always patient with me.

Several tee places away from us at the South Range Golf Range, a girl who appeared to be about my same age was smacking straight and pure drives out to the 200-yard marker. She was under the watchful eye of an older man who was likely her father and appeared to be urging her to even longer drives. In the meantime, I was dribbling the ball off the tees and occasionally hitting it solidly, but even those hits barely reached the 150-yard marker. My father watched me closely, and I wondered what he was thinking as he saw my pathetic hits. I wanted so badly to impress him and tried following his previous instructions in how to hold the club, swing and concentrate (“Whatever you do Perry, concentrate,” dad told me. “Concentration. That’s an athlete’s best tool.”)

His own concentration that day was on me, eying my every move. Every so often he nodded, as if he was beginning to understand what he was seeing. He said nothing. I found it hard to concentrate on my golf hits, bothered by what my father was concluding from watching me. Did he only see his pathetic son, or was he seeing a teen girl?

“You have a model swing, Perry,” dad said finally, after perhaps twenty hits. “Your coordination is decent and you’re graceful. I’m sure we’ll get more power out of your swings if we work at it.”

After nearly an hour, my drives did begin to go further, never as far as the girl several tees away, but many were going beyond the 150-yard sign, bringing smiles of encouragement from dad. I found myself enjoying myself. When I finally got one nearly to the 200-yard sign, the girl yelled out, “Good shot.”

I waved back at her and she smiled.

My dad watched this exchange and a broad grin crossed his face. His response bothered me since he probably thought there might be some male urges in me; perhaps he saw a budding romance between his son (me) and the lovely girl. Little did he know that my interest in her was in the cute skirt she wore; I wanted one just like it.

It was on the drive home that dad finally mentioned my announcement that I wanted to be a girl. “I’m not happy about all this, Perry. You’re a boy and I hope you’ll grow up to be a man,” he said.

“I’m sorry, dad,” I said.

“Well, if what mom says is true that it’s in your nature to be female, then we’ll have to see. I love you, son, and always will.”

“Thanks, dad. I love you too and don’t want to hurt you.”

We stopped at a red light, he turned to me and smiled, “Well, as you saw today, fathers and daughters can golf together, too.”

*****
Later that day, Cindy and Perry suspended their “Ask Perry and Cindy” website with a brief announcement that would appear whenever anyone sought out their site:

“We are sorry to announce that we have suspended this website. It became apparent that as two high school students, we were unable to continue with the growing demands of the site and successfully continue our schoolwork.

“Both of us underestimated that the site would become so popular, and we received far more inquiries than we could possibly and conscientiously handle. We hope the site has been of service to all our teenage readers and apologize to any of those who feel we have disappointed them.

“For those interested in continuing to meet and share experiences, we invite you to our Facebook site. We will no longer be offering advice and handling queries, but all of you are welcome to network with each other there.

“Happy teen years to all. We love you all.

“Cindy and Perry”

Cindy and I cried as we wrote these last words. Even in this farewell message, we were not being totally truthful. Yes, our schoolwork had suffered due to the time involved in the website and, yes, the demand was overwhelming. The real reason was that I no longer wanted to be living a lie; I felt I had been dishonest and duplicitous in letting everyone assume I was a lovely teen girl, even if I felt like one.

“I feel I have been living a lie, Cindy, once I realized that everyone thought I was a girl and that I did nothing to change that,” I told Cindy that afternoon.

“Are you sure you’re not a girl, Perry? I don’t think it was a lie,” Cindy said.

“You know what I mean, and look what I did to a sweet boy like Jamie. He fell in love with a pretty girl. But I’m not a girl. I was so cruel to him, leading him on like that.”

Cindy hugged me. She knew how devastated I was after the conversation with Jamie. I may not be a girl, due to that ugly extension between my legs, but I knew I was acting like a girl in my sorrow over losing Jamie. In the end, Cindy agreed to end the website, realizing that I had become uncomfortable with continuing a deception.

*****
Several days later, I was cornered by Melanie Scouter, a girl in my Social Studies class; several of her friends joined her in confronting me as I left the class, on the way to my Chemistry class.

“Why did you and Cindy close the site?” she demanded.

“Yeah, we loved it,” echoed one of her friends.

“Thanks,” I said. “But as we said, it got too much.”

“Perry, I loved your comments,” Melanie said. “It’s just like you were a real girl.”

“Yes, you seemed to know what I was feeling. Like you’re just one of us girls, Perry,” said her friend.

I began to blush. I nodded, and started to head off down the hall, but Melanie stopped me and dragged me into an alcove where she and I could talk without being overheard.

“I got to tell you that some of the boys were going to blow the whistle on you and announce online that the Perry on that site was really a boy,” Melanie said.

“Oh. I was afraid that might happen, but I really didn’t plan on being taken for a girl,” I argued. “They just assumed it, I guess.”

“Well, I always thought Perry was a girl’s name anyway,” she said. “And really, your discussions were so girly.”

“I just tried to understand how all of you felt so I could answer the best I could.”

“We all loved it, Perry. Really.”

“I gotta get to my class. Thanks Melanie.”

“I hope we can be friends, Perry,” she said, giving me a quick, surprisingly passionate kiss on my lips, before turning and walking quickly down the hall.

*****
“Do you think you’d like to live your future out as a girl and then a woman?”

Dr. James Aliopolous asked that question no more than ten minutes into his first interview with me. I paused before answering, looking at the dark-complexioned, handsome man in front of me. I knew my answer would be critical; Dr. Aliopolous was a renowned psychiatrist with a reputation in dealing with gender dysphoria and his diagnosis would be an important determinant as to whether I might enter into transition from male to female.

“Just take your time, Perry. Tell me your real feelings, not what you think I’d like to hear, or what your mother might like to hear. Besides, she’s not here. It’s just you and me.”

I nodded, still reluctant to answer. In truth, while I had adopted so many feminine traits and loved dressing as girlishly as possible, I had never seriously considering changing my gender. I just thought I was doomed to live as a sissyish boy and man. Often, I had wondered if I might be gay and, of course, I was often accused of that. What else do you make of terms like “faggot,” “queer,” “nancy boy,” and “Mary?” But that didn’t seem right to me; the idea of boy-to-boy loving was hardly attractive.

“Doctor,” I started out slowly. “I don’t really know yet. I know I love being with girls and wearing girl things. And I had an online boyfriend for a while, and I dreamed that I was his girlfriend. He was such a sweet boy.”

The doctor nodded.

“Are you and he no longer in contact?”

“No,” I shook my head sadly. I felt I was going to cry.

“Here,” Dr. Aliopolous said, handing me a tissue from a box on his desk. He smiled, obviously seeing my truly feminine reaction to the mention of this online boyfriend.

He continued the consultation until my 50-minute appointment was up. He ended without saying anything about his diagnosis, saying only that we’d need another session. He made one suggestion: make up a list in two columns, headed “Pro” and “Con” in considering whether I’d like to transition to female.

“Maybe the list will help you,” he said, smiling. “You can keep the list to yourself, or share it with me at the next visit. It might help you.”

*****
“Mom, when he asked me if I really wanted to be a girl, I was afraid to answer ‘Yes,’” I said as mother drove me home from Dr. Aliopolous’ office.

Mother didn’t say anything, seemingly concentrating on negotiating our city’s modest rush hour traffic jams as we continued down Lincoln Avenue.

“Mom, why couldn’t I say ‘Yes’ to him?”

“Maybe, you’re not convinced that you should change, darling,” she said. “It’s a big step.”

“But, mom, I’m a girl. I know it.” My voice cracked as I said the words. I envisioned myself in the arms of Jamie, being caressed as his girl and feeling warm and protected. How often images of Jamie popped into my head!

“That’s your decision, honey. Whatever you decide, you know I’ll love you either way.”

“He asked me to list the ‘pros’ and ‘cons’ of transitioning before I see him next week.”

“Do you want me to help you with that, Perry?”

“No mom, he told me to do it by myself. Thanks anyway.”

“He sounds like a good psychiatrist,” she said, quickly changing the subject. “Now, you’ve had a big day. What would you like to do for dinner tonight? We could stop at La Coquette for a nice dinner, or do pizza or go home and see what we got in the fridge. What you think?”

“Let’s just go home, mom,” I said. I was eager to get comfortable; I had a new nightgown and robe combo and I wanted to wash my hair. And I was eager to begin my list.

*****
Creating this list was more difficult than I thought it would be. At first, I just wrote “Pro” and “Con” at the top of a sheet of school notebook paper and tried to list the various items on each side of the question. I thought I’d try listing all the reasons why I didn’t want to become a girl.

“I’ll be teased and harassed,” I wrote. The moment I put those words down, I realized that I’m being teased and harassed now; I was regularly laughed at or despised for my sissy mannerisms and feminine ways. So what’s the difference?

Then I wrote: “Trouble with my ID cards for school, etc.” That was an obstacle, I knew, but it’s just a hassle that usually can be overcome with time, but everyone has barriers like those. No big deal.

Also: “Dad will be disappointed.” Yes, he had said he wanted me to become a man, but didn’t he also say that “fathers and daughters golf together?”

Then: “Grandma and grandpa won’t like me anymore.” That gave me pause; they have yet to see me as a girl. I know that grandpa as a young man played baseball, even reaching the higher minor leagues; now he coached in a youth league. I know he wasn’t happy that I had never been able to throw a baseball as far as most boys, but apparently I had developed good form; he said I had a nice swing at the plate, even though most of my hits were pretty weak. Grandpa was a sweet man who had patience when we played catch. Never once did he say, “You throw like a girl,” which I probably did at first. Maybe he and grandma would understand, I began to think. After all, I was sure they wanted me to be happy.

My next entry was more troubling: “No one will want to be my life partner.” This really bothered me, since I had done enough research online to learn that many transwomen had been unable to find a man who’d accept them, even if they had had sexual reassignment surgeries. And, I probably couldn’t find a lesbian partner, either. I’d be alone in the world.

“Oh my darling, Jamie,” I cried out, tears rolling into my eyes. He was gone from my life; how heavenly it had been to have been his girlfriend, and now we’d never see each other.

I gave up on the “pro-con” list and flung myself onto my bed, crying myself to sleep, dreaming I was dancing a Strauss waltz in a lovely gown with a handsome, young Army officer in formal uniform as my escort. Of course, the young officer was my dearest Jamie.

It was 2:46 in the morning on the clock radio next to my bed. I sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The light on my desk was still on and the paper with penciled list of the “pros” and “cons.” I scowled at the list.

I got up, walked slowly to the desk and sat down. I took the pencil in my hand and in huge letters, all capitals, I wrote: I AM A GIRL!

5 – New Life
I began living fulltime as a girl once the spring semester of school ended. Never in my life had I felt more like myself. Cindy, of course, continued to be my best friend, and though we spent less time together due to her deepening relations with Josh, our times with each other were always the best. We shared “girl talk” constantly and she related so much of what she and Josh did in their private moments.

She even arranged for Josh to have his cousin who was visiting from Green Bay to be my date for a picnic outing on the last weekend in June. I hesitated in accepting the date, but Josh said his cousin was hardly the type of boy who would try to take advantage of a girl

“There’s no reason for him to suspect you’re not a girl and, believe me I don’t even think he’d try to kiss you,” Josh said.

“Yeah, just let him think you’re all girl, Perry,” her friend Cindy assured.

“I don’t expect anything will continue beyond this one outing, since he’s way up in Green Bay,” Josh said.

Quincy was a sweet, shy boy of my age who apparently had never had a girlfriend. I was happy to be treated like any other girl on a blind date. I don’t know what it was, but we really seemed to hit it off and he opened up, telling me his desire to be a writer. Josh had assured me that Quincy would not make any advances on me due to the boy’s shy nature, and he was certainly proven correct. Quincy was much the gentleman. Our only physical contact involved holding hands. For some reason, I found that erotic.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Quincy said, having held off that question until our date was nearly over and they were dropping me off at my house.

“Sort of,” I said, thinking of Jamie.

“Oh,” he said, looking crestfallen.

I almost cried, looking at this shy boy who apparently liked me but was afraid to push his friendship upon me. I realized, however, that my sadness came not from my desire to continue a relationship with him; rather, I felt sad for the sweet boy who asked it. In truth, I had a boyfriend and it was Jamie, even though Jamie was no longer in my life.

Like the young gentleman he was, Quincy escorted me from the car up to my front door. I gave him a quick kiss and said, “Thank you for a lovely day.” I could see him smile and grow red in the face as I turned and entered the house.

*****
I continued to be accepted as one of the girls into the group of Melanie Scouter’s friends. How sweet it was to gather into their giggling sessions, their gossiping and sometimes their times of stress. I became a confidant of several of the girls who told me all of their teenage troubles. Several wanted my advice, having come to trust my instincts (or maybe it was my feminine intuition, giggle).

Of course, we flirted with boys; more often than not, I was one of the girls who drew the most attention, a situation that bothered me, since I did not wish to create any jealousy among my newfound friends. To anyone looking at us gathered in the mall or on the street corner, I was just a normal looking teen girl; I dressed exactly the same as my friends, never succumbing to the lure of dressing more stylishly than them. Even in the scruffiest of jeans and boy shirts, I was still taken to be a girl.

Even though we had announced the closing of the “Ask Perry and Cindy” website, I had continued to receive emails from teenagers – usually girls – seeking advice for their problems. The blogsite remained alive, carrying the announcement that we would no longer accept questions.

Some I couldn’t resist answering; they were too heart-breaking and I worried that if I didn’t answer, the girl might do something to herself. I had recognized the tendency of many teenage girls to overdramatize happenings in their lives, only to soon forget the whole event within a few months. I also knew that teenagers were harming themselves – even to the point of suicides – more often these days.

A girl, who signed only as “Desperate” emailed:

Dear Perry: I miss your column so much. I need your help. Can you help me? Please.

Life sucks. I get teased all the time, just cause I’m fat. And no boy will ever want me. They just call me a fat pig or worse. I can’t help being fat. I’ve tried some diets, but none of them seem to work. Mom keeps cooking heavy food and says a girl needs some meat on her bones. She says men like fat girls, but she’s wrong. I’ve never been on a date and I’m nearly 17.

I’m so lonely. Other girls don’t like me and won’t hang out with me. They think their reputation will be ruined to even be seen with me.

I have no hope. I know where daddy’s hunting rifle is and his bullets.

Help me. Please, Perry.

Desperate

No way could I ignore her plea; the girl thought of herself as an outcast and was obviously facing rejection from her classmates. I had to answer her, I knew, even though I had no obligation to do so. I wondered what I could possibly say that wouldn’t sound like pointless pieties. Yet, I tried, not sure that my words would have any effect.

Desperate: I can’t tell you to merely continue on, promising that as you grow into adulthood, your fortunes will change. I am convinced they will get better, since most adults are less judgmental about a person’s weight. There’s a good chance, too, that some young man will find you and you’ll gain a partner for life.

No, you need help now! I can see that.

First of all, forget about your dad’s hunting rifle. Once you pull the trigger on yourself, it’s all over. There are no second chances. If possible, suggest to your dad to hide it where you’ll never find it; better yet, tell him to get it out of the house.

About your weight. I have no idea how fat you are. There’s a tendency among some of us girls to think we’re too fat, even when we may be merely a bit chunky. If you’re terribly obese, please see your doctor to get you started on losing weight. I’ve known some terribly fat girls who eventually lost weight and turned into beauties. And, of course, exercise; check out your local YWCA or Boys and Girls Club to see if there are programs for overweight girls and boys. Sometimes a girl needs help to lose weight.

And, don’t fret about not dating. That will come in due course. What are you good at? What are your career goals? Concentrate on your education. It’s important to get a skill, whether you wish to be a doctor, lawyer, or engineer. If you like being a hairdresser or waitress, try to make yourself the best possible in that work. If you’re good at your job (whatever it is), people will not care how you look.

Dear Desperate, look to the future. I’m sure there’ll be some sunshine poking through the gray clouds for you.

Feel free to write me if you need more help. I’m proud to be your friend, Perry.

I hit the “send” button when I finished, not feeling confident that what a wrote would do any good.

A day later, Desperate, replied:

Dear Perry: Thank you for being my friend. Believe me, I’m too fat. I’m 210 pounds and only five feet five inches. I know I can do something about it; thanks to you, I checked out the “Y” and they do have a program for fat kids, so I’ve asked mom to enroll me in it.

I hate to admit this, but I like to work on cars. Like being a mechanic. My older brother runs a repair business and I’ve been helping out there. I think I’m good at it, but that’s no job for a girl, is it?

I’ll keep you posted on how I’m feeling. Thank you again. You’re so smart, dear Perry.

Hugs, Desperate

PS. My name is Wendy and I’m attaching a picture of myself.

The picture showed Wendy with a round chubby face; it was really a pretty face, showing warm, ruddy cheeks and bright, green eyes to match auburn hair, unruly and straight. A little work and Wendy could become a very pretty, though chubby, girl.

Thus began regular correspondence. To my surprise, Wendy wrote that she talked to her school counselor about taking an auto mechanic’s course in her senior year of high school. She said that she lost a few pounds, giving her confidence that she could continue to shed the fat. The truth was Wendy had a naturally large-boned frame; she could become an attractive sturdy and strong girl. More importantly, she had a date with a boy who ironically was tall and thin. “He likes me and has offered to take me out again. You’re a life-saver, Perry,” Wendy messaged.

My correspondence with Wendy awakened in me a realization that the advice column had really provided a service and maybe should be resumed, even if Cindy was no longer eager to join in the endeavor. The clincher came shortly thereafter when a popular online local newsletter offered to pay us if we’d resume the column and publish it with them. It was a fairly generous offer and suggested that we do the column twice a week. Cindy continued to be reluctant to work on it again and I considered writing the column myself, perhaps under the title, “Ask Perry: A column for teens.”

It was tempting, but when I realized I’d have to eventually reveal my questionable gender, I cooled to the idea. I decided to write the column, but only once and week and to self-publish it, content to have its readership grow through social media norms.

Melanie Scouter was particularly pleased that I resumed the column and she helped me sort through all the emails I got to help me choose the ones that required most attention. She offered to host me at her house where the family had a speedy, high-end computer system as we went through the messages, discussed them and figured out how to answer. Sometimes other friends joined us; the sessions offered more opportunities for me to bond and become one of the girls.

*****
My one sadness was missing Jamie. What a wonderful summer it would have been if he could have been just a couple of hours from me and we could have frolicked together as lovers. I was also worried about Jamie. Was it vain of me to think that he needed me, that it was my influence that brought him out of his reclusive funk, that brought a lovely, sweet boy out into the world of friends? Was his love for Perry, the girl, so strong that when he learned the truth about me he wilted back into his awful depression?

I was worried about my man; only, of course, he wasn’t “my man,” he was his man. Or, at least he was his own boy, since he wasn’t quite old enough to be a man. I wasn’t his mother, was I?

I missed the nightly phone calls, the cute text messages and especially our Skype sessions. I loved seeing his cowlick and often felt I could reach through the screen all the way down to Ft. Smith, Arkansas, to smooth that unruly bit of light brown hair down. And then maybe to kiss him.

I wondered sometimes if my love for Jamie was that of one boy for another, a gay love, and as marvelous as that might have been, I resisted the idea that I was a boy in love with another boy. No, no. I was a girl in love with a boy. I had hoped my pining over our lost love would lessen as time went on, but even with my busy, happy summer with my girlfriends, my thoughts about Jamie haunted me. So often, I was ready to punch Jamie’s phone number that was programmed on my cell phone to call him, or just to message him. I’d merely ask how he was doing; what would be wrong about that? But I didn’t.

I cried sometimes at night, realizing that I was a weird half-girl, a strange concoction of human being that no real man could ever love. I cried mostly, however, because of Jamie; he was always with me.

*****
My seventeenth birthday was August 17, a Saturday, and my girlfriends arranged a party for me at the home of Celeste Mallory, one of the wealthier girls in our group. The family had a well-manicured large yard with a spacious swimming pool. They had tried to arrange it as a surprise party, but I had known something was up, because the girls seemed to be plotting something involving me, ‘cause they always began shushing when I approached the group.

It was an all-girl’s party, and later it would become a sleepover, my first sleepover as a girl; actually my first sleepover, ever. Everyone by then knew of my transgender status, that I was now to live outwardly as a girl in preparations for hormone therapy and eventually sexual reassignment surgery and perhaps even some facial surgery and breast enhancement.

“Do you have a swim suit, Perry?” Melanie asked when she finally made the invitation. I had of course figured out they had something planned for that day by then.

“Not a girl’s suit,” I replied.

“You’ll need one,” she said, a mischievous smile appearing. “We’re holding a birthday party at Celeste’s for you on your birthday. It’ll be so much fun. They have a perfectly awesome swimming pool.”

I giggled. “Won’t I look weird in a girl’s suit?”

“My God no, Perry. You know I’ve seen you with your shirt off, you have a perfectly lovely body. Really, it’s not a boy’s body at all. You’ll look great in a bikini,” she gushed.

“A bikini?”

“Yes, we’ll all be wearing them. You must.”

“I got something to hide, Mel,” I said.

“My guess is that you don’t have much to hide,” she said, giggling. “Besides, don’t you have a gaff?”

I blushed. She was right; I didn’t have much in the way of a boy’s appendage.

“Yes, I do have a gaff. I suppose I could wear a bikini,” I said.

“Wanna go shopping now?” she asked.

“Why not?”

*****

The sky was a cloudless blue and the temperatures hovered in the low nineties on August seventeenth – my seventeenth birthday. I had never remembered such a warm day on my past birthdays and it made a perfect setting for the pool party at Celeste’s huge, lovely home. The Mallorys apparently had lots of money, but they proved to be warm and down-to-earth and welcomed all of us girls eagerly onto their back patio and pool area.

Thankfully, the family had a large cabana along one side of the pool, where we could lounge in order to get out of the hot sun. However, some of us, including me, hoped to work on our tans and planned to spend some time on chaise lounges in the sun, even though mom warned me against getting sunburned.

“Put on plenty of sunscreen, dear. You know how tender your skin is,” she warned.

“I’m too pale mom. I want to get darker,” I complained.

“Just don’t overdo it,” she said, as I raced out of the door to run to the car awaiting me at the curb. Melanie had borrowed the family Escape to pick several of us girls up.

“It’s too bad Cindy couldn’t come,” Melanie said as I joined her in the front seat. Two other girls already were in the back.

“I know, but she wanted to bring Josh along,” I noted.

“She knew it was girls only, didn’t she?” Melanie asked.

“Yeah, but you know how close those two are. You’d think those two were chained together,” Ellen Halverson said from the backseat.

We all giggled.

The Mallorys greeted us warmly, showing us into a shower and locker room they had constructed on the lower lever of the home, adjacent to the pool. It was obviously a co-ed room, but it had four stalls where the more modest of us could change in private. Naturally I chose one of those, while most of the girls changed in the large general room. How I yearned to get rid of that ugly boy thing so I could truly be one of the girls!

“Aren’t you the cutest?” screamed Ellen, as I exited from my stall.

I blushed and did a dainty twist to show it off; I loved the swim suit Melanie and I found at the Ms. Fashion store in the mall. It was a skirted bikini that offered protection against any unexpected arousal or problem that might occur (need I be more specific?). It was turquoise with a light feminine floral design; it had a matching bra with medium-sized cup into which were sewn two A-cup breast forms.

Mom thought it was too immodest, but I thought it was darling. In fact, of all the girls at the party, mine may have been the least skimpy, except for that worn by Heather Szymkowski, whose generously-sized body required a more substantial swimsuit.

What a day it was! The Mallorys had organized a few games to keep us busy, including a spirited game of water polo and then water volleyball. We giggled so much my tummy began to hurt at times; the girls made fun of my total athletic ineptitude, and I loved it being able to portray myself as a helpless, weak, dainty girl. Most of them were on one or more of the girl’s athletic teams at school.

We lounged for a while in the sun after the exhausting games; Melanie pulled our chaise lounges together into a sunny area. We applied more sunscreen; I loved massaging her firm, muscular shoulders, arms and legs.

“Your skin is so soft and smooth,” Melanie said when she began applying the lotion to me, as I lie on my tummy.

She moved her hands gently across my body, massaging my slender, fleshy arms and thighs. She seemed to relish lingering on parts of my body as she applied the lotion; I loved her touch, and I felt my bikini bottom tighten and grow moist.

I was awakened out of my reverie by a brief “ding” on my phone, signifying a text message. Melanie heard it, too. She reached down to retrieve my cell from where I had laid it and said, “Do you want this?”

I took it from her, and pressed the message button; the message read:

“Happy Birthday, Perry. Your friend, Jamie.”

*****
I must have nearly fainted when I opened the message. It was from Jamie; I hadn’t heard from him since Easter, more than four months ago

“What’s wrong, Perry?” Melanie said, noticing the shiver that went through me.

I looked up at her and could see the concern in her eyes; she had stopped massaging my back and I sat upright on the lounge, my feet on the hot cement.

“It’s Jamie. He wished me a ‘Happy Birthday,’ and signed off as ‘your friend.’”

She hugged me tightly. “That’s so good! No, it’s awesome. He’s still thinking of you.”

“I thought he hated me.”

Melanie kissed me. “Just imagine that kiss is from Jamie,” she giggled.

“Oh you! Maybe he was just being nice. It’s just a text message. It’s not like he’s sending me flowers.”

“No, Perry,” she insisted. “He still loves you.”

Melanie grabbed my phone out of my hand and stood up, looking down at me. I had laid down again to think about whether to respond. I looked up in time to see Melanie snapping a picture with me phone; she had captured my lounging in the sun.

“You’re so lovely, Perry,” she said.

“What are you doing? Gimme my phone back.”

Melanie only giggled and handed the phone back to me.

“What did you do?” I demanded.

“Jamie will love the picture. You’re stunning in that swim suit. He’ll never doubt you’re a girl now.”

“You didn’t?”

She smiled. I checked the phone; it was obvious: Melanie had hit the reply button to Jamie’s message and sent the picture she took to Jamie. Frankly, I didn’t know whether to be mad or pleased; I had to admit the picture was dazzling and portrayed what could only be viewed as a pretty, slender teen girl in a swimsuit that made her alluring and, in truth, a bit sexy.

“Oh, I wish you hadn’t Mel. What will he think?”

“Maybe you ought to reply to him, Perry, tell him I did it.”

It was the only thing I could do; otherwise he would take me as a cheap tart or, even worse, a whore like some of those ladyboys who prance around as prostitutes. I texted:

“Sorry for the photo. My friend Melanie sent that picture without my OK. Thank you for the birthday greetings. Perry”

Almost instantly, I got a reply:

“Loved the photo. You’re prettier than ever. May I call you? Now? Please.”

Melanie had crowded next to me, reading the message. Soon, several other girls gathered around us, wondering what was going on. They had all heard about my break-up with Jamie, and as girls are wont to do, they love to support a friend who’s facing a boy problem. They had all been so supportive and I loved them dearly.

“Tell him to call, Perry,” Celeste Mallory said.

“If you don’t text him back, we’ll take your phone and text him ourselves. You know you think of Jamie day-in and day-out,” Melanie echoed.

I shooed them all away, demanding privacy, which they reluctantly agreed to. I found a quiet place in the shade and sat on a lawn chair to reply to Jamie, telling him it was OK to call within the next ten minutes.

In less than a minute after I posted the message, my phone rang.

Me: Hi (said softly, tentatively).

Jamie: Perry? Is that you?

Me: Yeah.

Jamie: Happy Birthday.

Me: Thank you.

(Awkward silence for seemingly long time.)

Jamie: Miss me?

Me: Huh?

Jamie: I missed you. Lots.

Me: I guess.

Jamie: You didn’t miss me? (Said hesitantly, as if he was afraid of my answer.)

Me: (Crying audibly) Yes.

Jamie: I’m sorry I left you suddenly on that phone call. How horrid I was.

Me: I understood, Jamie. It must have been a shock. I was lying to you and you were right to dump me.

Jamie: No, you weren’t. I understand now. I’ve studied about girls like you since then. You’re still the prettiest girl anywhere.

Me: No I’m not.

Jamie: Well you are in my mind, anyway.

Me: That’s sweet of you to say.

Jamie: It’s true. What’s all that noise in the background? Where are you?

Me: At a pool party at my friend’s place. It’s for my birthday. We’re having so much fun.

Jamie: Oh? Are there boys there?

Me: (Giggling) You jealous?

Jamie: What do you think?

Me: No, it’s a girls-only party. You can’t come.

Jamie: I’m glad you’re having fun then.

Me: We are. Oops. Here they come. I tried to call you in privacy, but all the girls think you’re hot.

Melanie: (Yelling so that her voice is heard by Jamie) We all love her Jamie.

Jamie: Seems like you have a Greek chorus there.

Me: They’re hovering over me now, so maybe we better hang up now. It’s time for my birthday cake, I guess.

Jamie: Yes, but may I call you tonight?

Me: Yes. Usual time?

Jamie: Of course. I bet I know what you’ll wish when you blow out those seventeen candles.

Me: I’m not telling you my wish, or else it won’t come true.

Jamie: We’ll talk tonight.

We hung up. There were no noisy kisses, such as those we did over the phone in the past. I hoped those kisses would come the next time.

*****
That night, I learned that Jamie had been spending the summer with his grandparents, just a bit over an hour away. He confessed to being unable to get me out of his mind, and toyed constantly with the idea of driving up to my town to search me down.

“Why didn’t you?” I challenged him. Both of us had had a painful summer with constant yearning about spending time with each other.

“I just couldn’t get over you being a boy,” he confessed.

“But, Jamie, I’m not and never have been a boy,” I protested.

“You still got your boy parts and that bothered me. You were all girl to me and then you told me you weren’t really a girl. The thought of you being a boy, oh Perry, I would have felt weird dating . . . ah . . . ah . . .”

“What? I’m not a drag queen or a pervert, Jamie. I’m just a girl.”

I started to cry; I thought he had begun to understand about me, but apparently not.

“Don’t cry, Perry. Please, I don’t want to hurt you,” he pleaded.

“Why did you text me then?” I said finally, when I had stopped my sobbing.

“I told you because I never stopped liking you, and it was your birthday.”

“Thank you, and I like you, too.”

“Can I drive up Sunday and visit you?” he asked suddenly.

“What?” I asked, surprised at his suggestion.

“Grandpa will let me borrow his pickup and I can be up there anytime you want Sunday. I have to see you before I have to go back to Arkansas. I just have to.”

How could a girl refuse such a suggestion?

*****
I wrestled with myself, trying to decide what to wear for Jamie’s visit. He said his visit would merely be to have “fun” and to renew a friendship.

“Let’s go out and just enjoy ourselves,” he said before we had finished the call. “Let’s not get too serious about anything. OK?”

That was a good idea, I agreed; yet, I couldn’t help becoming more than a little overwhelmed by the prospect of seeing Jamie again. I kept telling myself any kind of romantic relationship with Jamie – given my transgender status – would be out of the question. He deserved a real woman, I reasoned. Yet, my mind couldn’t help jumping to the belief that I could be that woman.

Cindy was sympathetic, agreeing that my desire to be Jamie’s one and only girlfriend was a natural response of any girl.

“From his pictures, I can see he’s a hunk and he seems so nice, too,” Cindy told me.

I knew I blushed because Cindy just smiled and put her hand on top of mine in a moment of sisterly understanding. “Look, Josh and I are planning to go over to the beach at Lake Geneva Sunday along with Melanie and her new boyfriend. Why don’t you and Jamie join us?”

“Oh I couldn’t. Jamie doesn’t know any of you,” I said.

“Nonsense, he’ll get along fine with us, and besides it might mean you won’t have to spend so much time alone with him. We’re all easy to get along with.”

When I called Jamie that night and mentioned Cindy’s invitation, he sounded eager to join the group. “I’ll bring a swimsuit along and Perry you must wear that suit you wore at the party,” he said.

“I can’t wear that suit. It’s too skimpy and mom will forbid it,” I replied.

“You gotta wear it. It’s so cute.”

6 – Love Blooms
On Sunday, Jamie arrived ten minutes before his scheduled noon arrival, driving an older model Ford 150 pickup that obviously was used as a workday vehicle at his grandfather’s hardware business. I knew he would be eager to be on time, so I tried to be ready for him, but I was still working on my hair when he arrived.

I had been worried how my parents would receive Jamie; it had only been a short while since my father accepted the inevitable and began recognizing me as his daughter. He even used the proper pronouns and began giving me fatherly hugs and light kisses that he’d never give to Perry, the boy.

I could hear Kelly, my sister, greet him loudly with the words, “You must be Jamie. Please come in. Perry’s still getting dressed. You know how slow these girls can be.”

I had dressed in tight teal-colored shorts that exposed nearly all of my upper thigh and a sleeveless pink tee shirt with bunny rabbits frolicking across the breasts; underneath I wore the A-cup bra with the forms that I had sewn into the cups. Hearing the conversation with Jamie, Kelly and my parents, I knew I better hurry to rescue him from their nagging questions. I was still wrestling with my hair, when I heard my door open. It was my sister, Kelly.

“Let me help you with that. Mom and dad are giving Jamie the third degree,” she said.

“I know.”

Kelly took command and quickly tied my hair into a loose ponytail, even though I protested I didn’t like ponytails.

“Trust me, you’ll be glad you’ve got the hair that way when you get in the water.”

“But it’s not very feminine,” I protested.

“It will be.”

She grabbed my pink baseball cap and ran my loosely braided hair through the hole in the cap.

*****
As I walked down the stairs I could hear the conversation in the living room and my dad say, “You’re aware of Perry’s gender situation, I presume.”

“Yes, sir. She told me and I respect her . . .” Jamie responded, his speech faltering as I walked into the living room.

Jamie and mom were seated at each end of the sofa and dad was in the side chair; all three were seated forward, as if in an intense discussion. I was sure poor Jamie’s stomach must have been churning. When he saw me, Jamie’s mouth fell open and he was speechless. His eyes took on a shocked look, and I wondered if I looked weird or something.

Mom broke the ice: “Aren’t you the cutest thing, darling? But, aren’t those shorts too skimpy?”

“Mo – o – m,” I moaned. “All the girls wear these.”

“Maybe, but they’re too short for you,” dad said. “Now go back up and change into something more respectable.”

I felt flushed, worrying both about whether Jamie liked what I was wearing and about my mothers’ orders to change into something more modest.

“Hi, Perry,” Jamie said, offering a tentative wave.

Then, without thinking, I turned to Jamie and said, “What do you think, Jamie? Are these too short?”

Immediately, I wished I could take back the question. What right had I to inject Jamie into an argument between a girl and her parents?

Jamie, however, seemed unfazed and answered quickly, “I think nice girls obey their parents.”

Mom and dad broke into smiles; I scowled momentarily at Jamie, before charging back upstairs to my room. I found a light summer skirt that that ran to my knees and changed into it; strangely, the skirt made me feel both comfortable and extremely feminine. I examined myself in the full length mirror, seeing a delicate, slender girl wearing sandals with her toenails painted in blush pink. I might be the only girl on the beach with a skirt, but I had to admit it felt good.

“Wow” was Jamie’s only reaction as I re-entered the living room.

He had a broad smile on his face and got up and came over to hug me and give me a quick kiss on the lips. He reached down onto the sofa and picked up a bouquet of flowers, mainly daisies, interspersed with tiny white carnations, and handed them to me. “Here’s to a lovely girl and a great friend,” he said.

Naturally I blushed. I was speechless and wanted to cry.

“Here darling, let me take those and put them in water,” mom said, taking the flowers.

“That’s awfully sweet, Jamie,” I finally said, rising on my tiptoes to kiss him on the lips.

I stepped back and looked at Jamie; he was every bit as handsome as the boy I saw in the photos he forwarded and in our Skype chats. His face had grown tan and his arms seemed to have become more muscled, perhaps due to the work he must have been doing at his grandfather’s shop.

*****
Jamie and I had only a few minutes to ourselves before we were to meet the other two couples; he was to drive to Cindy’s house, where we all were to board the mini-van that Josh had borrowed from his parents to make the 45-minute drive to Lake Geneva.

“You’re really so much prettier than your pictures,” he said after a few minutes.

“Really?”

“Oh yes, so often the pictures on the Internet the girls look prettier than they are, but you were a truly pleasant surprise,” he said, glancing over me.

“Turn right at the next corner, Jamie,” I said as the pickup approached Cindy’s street.

As he navigated the corner, I looked at him. “And you’re so handsome, so much better in real life, Jamie,” I said.

We both smiled. “There it is, at the end of the block on the right.”

Melanie and her new boyfriend, an African-American lad named Jackson, piled into the front seat next to Josh, while Cindy joined Jamie and me in the backseat. As predicted, both Melanie and Cindy wore shorts much like the ones my parents had ordered me to take off.

In our short drive, Jamie commented. “You know it’s remarkable. This is the first time we’ve ever been together, yet I think I’ve known you all my life, Perry.”

“Me too,” I said lightly squeezing his arm as he drove. Jamie and I moved closer to each, as if to give Cindy more room on the seat.

“It’s kind of cramped so maybe this will help,” Jamie said, lifting his arm and wrapping it over my shoulder. I took this as an invitation to nestle close enough to him to smell the manly scent of his deodorant.

“This is much more comfy,” I said, looking up at the lively blue eyes of my darling.

*****
The day couldn’t have been more ideal for young lovers: clear blue sky and temperatures in the comfortable eighties. Big Foot Beach State Park was located just a couple of blocks from the main shopping area of the City of Lake Geneva and at the east end of the large, clear waters of Lake Geneva. The only downer was that the beach was understandably crowded and we had to cram our beach blankets into a narrow strip of land at the far end of the beach. Cindy, Melanie and I had all worn our swimsuits underneath our clothes and we quickly took off our tops, shorts and, in my case, a skirt. Soon, we all three stood in bikinis.

Jamie was all eyes and I shamelessly offered a shimmy as if to show off my femininity.

“Oh my God,” he said.

“Yes, Jamie, she makes me so jealous,” Cindy said. “Look at the body.”

“Come on, both of you look great,” I said, truthfully.

“Not as hot as you, Perry. Those two guys over there eyeing us. You can bet they’re looking at you, not me,” Cindy said, laughing.

*****
It was nearing dusk when we arrived back into town and got out of the van. We said good bye to our friends and moved into the pickup truck. Jamie and I had about an hour to spend alone, and I suggested we take a walk on a wilderness path along the river. It was located in a county park and frankly was often the place where couples of all ages walked.

“We can find a bench and talk for a while. It’s a beautiful park, Jamie,” I said.

“Sounds perfect,” he said smiling.

It was a marvelous site with the lazily flowing river making a bend among the trees, bushes and downed branches.

Jamie held my hand and we nestled closely. After a few moments, he kissed me, gently and slowly and I grew excited as he caressed the soft flesh of my arm with his calloused, large hands. I knew this was where I belonged. He was extraordinarily affectionate, his lips warm and his caresses loving.

“Can we never be together, Jamie?” I whispered.

“Why not?” he responded.

Just then an older couple who had been passing by on the path stopped to look at the scenic river; they spied us and I saw the woman whisper something to her mate. Both looked directly at us and smiled. I swear I saw the man give Jamie a discreet “thumbs-up” gesture followed by a wink.

“I wonder if that old couple sat on this same bench many years ago,” I smiled.

“And they’re still lovers, it appears,” Jamie said.

“I wonder if that could be us forty and fifty years from now.”

“Would you like that, Perry?”

“Oh darling. Is that such an impossible dream?”

“Not for me,” he said, beginning to resume our kisses. They grew passionate and Jamie’s hands became more explorative of my body. I feared he’d start wanting to play with my breasts or my boy part; I wanted to avoid that, because it exposed me as not a complete girl. Jamie was considerate and must have sensed my reluctance for such touching. He avoided my sensitive parts. I was grateful.

Darkness was beginning to descend into the woods before we finally got up from the bench and returned to his pickup in the parking lot. He had to get back to his grandparents’ house by nine o’clock since he had to work early the next day.

“Perry, if you want, I’ll be able to see you often in the next year,” he said as we sat together in the cab of the pickup in front of my home. We were spending a few minutes together before he had to leave.

“That’s great,” I said. “But how are we going to do that? Aren’t you going to college somewhere this year?”

“I’m taking a year off and I’ll be working for grandpa and living with them,” he announced.

“But what about college?”

“I’m going to establish residency in Illinois so I can attend Northern Illinois on a state tuition.”

I was astonished. Northern Illinois was located in DeKalb, not far from the Wisconsin border or from our city.

“You’ll be finishing high school here this year and I wanted to be close to you,” he explained.

“You’re doing this to see me?” I couldn’t believe my ears.

“Well, yes, and besides the year delay will give me a chance to earn some money so that my school debt won’t be too high.”

“Jamie, I love you.”

“And I love you, forever,” he said. He took me in his arms and kissed me.

“I wish you didn’t have to go, Jamie.”

“Me too, but I better get started.”

He walked me to the front door. It opened before we got there.

“You two took a long enough time out there,” my father stood like a sentinel.

“Oh daddy. Don’t be such a fuddy-duddy.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Periwinkle,” Jamie said.

Just then, dad broke into a smile. “When I came home from a date, your grandfather always lectured us about what the neighbors would think. How I hated that.”

“Oh daddy, I love you,” I said entering the house, giving him a short kiss on her cheek.

“Drive safely young man,” father said, as Jamie returned to his truck for the trip home.

*****
“I can’t believe I’ve got such a beautiful daughter,” my father said as he joined mother and me in the kitchen.

Mother looked at her husband. “Jack, I’m so happy you’ve finally realized you no longer have a son.”

“I guess I can’t fight all three of you on this,” he said in referring to my mother, my sister Kelly and myself. Dad had registered a mixture of disgust, disappointment and anger at learning first that I had not only been dressing as a girl, but had actually wanted to live as one.

“No way,” he told mom after first learning about me. “We have a son.”

John Periwinkle had been an athlete and a so-called man’s man all his life. Varsity tight end on the football team, a hunter and a fisherman, dad had constantly chided me to become more athletic and to build up my muscles, something I tried to do to satisfy him. I always failed. I know he was hurt by my lack of masculinity, but he was always patient and was careful not to ridicule me, even though he tried hard to persuade me to become more physically active.

Mom, Kelly and me helped my father to understand that my gender issues were a part of nature, that I couldn’t help myself in feeling that I was a girl. Kelly was particularly helpful, showing dad a few books and videos that explained my situation. Now, I was so happy that he saw me as his little girl.

The coming school year would be difficult. Arrangements had been made to have me attend as a girl; my school records would read “female;” while the school administration had been cooperative, we were all convinced that I might face harassment, bullying and possible physical harm from some of the students.

“I’ve been teased and bullied during all my school years, and I’m willing to face up to whatever happens,” I told the school principal at a meeting attended by my parents, the principal, vice principal and school counselor.

*****
My first days of school were not easy. Castor Cornelius, an overweight, scruffy kid in my class, needled me almost daily, nestling up to me to make lewd comments under his breath. “Love to see that pathetic pussy,” he’d whisper, the scent from his foul mouth accenting the horror of this and similar comments not worth mentioning.

Cindy’s boyfriend Josh convinced the repulsive Castor that he’d best not bother me anymore. Josh was joined in this bit of vigilance by Melanie’s boyfriend, Jackson, who joined us on the trip to Lake Geneva. I’m not fond of violence, but it didn’t bother me that the husky presence of two strapping boys helped to persuade Castor to back off.

Then there was Maryann Boatwright, a plain looking girl who wore no makeup. “God will never forgive you, Perry,” she said. Her parents had objected on religious grounds to the school for permitting me to attend as a female, even to the extent of forcing the school for a brief time to forbid me from using the girls’ bathrooms. During the period, I was told to use the facilities either at the nurse’s station or in the third floor teachers’ lounge.

There was a brief legal fight, which thankfully ended without publicity. The school district’s attorney told the board to adhere to the state’s recent education policy that would permit students to use the bathroom facilities of their chosen gender, even if it was different from their birth gender. Maryann’s parents apparently accepted the resolution, since nothing more was heard about it.

Perhaps the fact that I sought out Maryann to befriend her, in spite of her apparent opposition to my new gender, may have helped. I had known her from a Social Studies class where we partnered on a history project celebrating Abraham Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation. She and I had enjoyed working together; to be truthful, I had always felt sorry for Maryann, since she had been teased and belittled for her plain, awkward clothes and her strong religious tendencies. During our project, I found her, however, to be intelligent, witty and surprisingly courageous for standing up to the ridicule.

I felt that Maryann was an unhappy girl; she always was morose when we worked together; it was only after a few sessions that she finally began to warm up and I saw that Maryann began to display her more positive personality traits. However, I resented Maryann for involving herself into my gender issues. At first I was angry, but then my friend Cindy suggested something when she and I were discussing how I should react.

“What advice would you give to a girl who wrote in with a similar problem, Perry?” she asked.

“I guess I’d tell her to approach the girl in a friendly manner and ask her about it,” I said.

“Well, then why don’t you listen to what Perry would tell her,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye.

It was good advice.

On the day after her parents complained to the school and I was forced out of the girls’ bathroom, I approached Maryann. She looked at me with a belligerent face, perhaps worrying that I would hit her. She needn’t have worried, since Maryann was a tall, husky girl who could likely have beaten me to a pulp in any physical confrontation

“I’m sorry, Maryann, that I have offended you,” I began.

The girl looked stunned. “Thanks,” she mumbled.

“I just had to do this for my own sanity. I feel I am a girl deep down inside.”

Maryann held up her hand, as if to stop me from further comment.

“I know,” she said. “I am the one who should apologize. I didn’t realize what I was doing. You’re one of the few students in this school who were ever nice to me and then I hurt you, Perry.”

“Let’s just be friends, OK?” I volunteered.

“Yes, girlfriends,” she said smiling.

A few days later, Maryann said her dad, the pastor of a church known for its strict Evangelistic nature, had been the one to raise the issue, even though the girl said she argued with them about it. “After all, I told them how nice you’d been to me, one of the few people in that school who was,” she explained. It appeared her mother had also argued that the family should not raise the issue, since it appeared her daughter might be ostracized even more by the students.

I guess you’d call that a happy ending since Maryann and I grew even closer, often spending our time together in talking over more serious matters than clothing, hair and boys. We both learned many things from each other; she knew the Bible inside and out, while I had always been enthralled with history, delving into books and finding educational materials online at by watching the History channel. It was a refreshing change.

“Perry, I love my father, and I hate to do something he’d disapprove of,” Maryann said several days later.

“You mean like being my friend?”

“Yes, I guess. I want you and I to be friends, but daddy would probably hate me if he knew,” she said.

“It’s not good to hide stuff from your parents,” I counseled, recalling that I, too, had been guilty of hiding my crossdressing and girlish desires from my own parents. “You know I feel so much better now that everyone knows about me as a girl. It’s so hard to hide things. I always felt guilty, kind of slimy. You know what I mean?”

“You think I should tell daddy?”

“Would your mother be more sympathetic?”

“I think so. Why don’t you first tell your mother? She might have some advice.”

“Oh, she’s scared of daddy.”

I grabbed Maryann’s hand; I felt sorry for the sweet girl whose life was being molded by a intolerant religious zealot. I doubted Maryann would tell her father of our friendship.

*****
Two days later, Maryann sought me out in the cafeteria. “Perry, we can be friends,” she said excitedly.

“You told your father?” I asked.

“Yes, and he was so mad at first. He wanted to spank me real hard, even though I’m 17 now. He always spanked me when I was little. ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child’ he would say. But mom stopped him.”

“How awful,” I said.

“It was a terrible scene but once he settled down, I told him how you were my only real friend in school. I said you’re really sweet and said that you couldn’t help being what you are.”

“So you convinced him?”

“Not completely, no, and he wants to meet you,” she said. “But I know he’ll try to talk you out of being a girl.”

“That’s OK, I’ll meet him, if he wishes,” I said.

For my Saturday morning meeting with Pastor Boatwright, I dressed modestly in a long print skirt that nearly went to my ankles. I wore a long-sleeved blouse with a high collar and put on flats. I let my hair flow long and straight and wore simple earrings and a single strand pearl necklace. I wore only neutral lip coloring and no eyeliner. I felt I was the model of modesty.

The pastor was a tall, powerful man with piercing eyes; when I arrived at his church office on the following Saturday morning, he greeted me. His face was expressionless. He was not anything like our pastor at the First Methodist Church who exuded gentleness and kindness.

Pastor Boatwright greeted me coldly, and I felt a shiver as he led me into his office. It was richly furnished, with book cases lining two of the walls, a glass cabinet along the third wall and draped windows on the fourth. He said nothing and motioned me to a chair. He moved into a large executive chair behind his massive desk and sat down ponderously, eyeing me.

“You’re the boy who has been trying to fool my daughter,” he said bluntly.

“Sir, I’m sorry, but I’ve always been honest with Maryann,” I said, looking him in the eye.

“You, young man have been dishonest, trying to pass yourself off as a girl.”

“No sir, I consider myself a girl, even though I was born with some male physical parts,” I said.

“The Lord considers you as a boy and I know there are places you can go to regain your masculinity. Otherwise, you’re an abomination and I must forbid Maryann from seeing you.”

I had brought along the letter I had obtained from Dr. Aliopolous, affirming that my belief that I was female was based upon a reality that I had a feminine psyche, even though I had a male organ. I also had a short article that I downloaded and printed out telling about the reality of transgendered girls like myself. I showed both of them to him; he began to read both items. To give him time to examine them, I took my attention from him and looked about the room. In the glass cabinet, I saw several plaques and trinkets, and what caught my attention were several baseball trophies as well as a picture of what appeared to be a younger Pastor Boatwright in the uniform of the Columbus Red Birds, a high level minor league baseball team.

“You were a ballplayer?” I asked when he was done reading.

He looked at me quizzically, as if my question was weird, especially coming from me, who I presume he considered to be an effeminate, disgusting young man.

“Yes, you interested in baseball?” he asked me.

I nodded. “It’s the only sport I like,” I said. “You know lots of girls like and play baseball.”

“Do you play?”

“A little,” I said. “My dad and grandfather both taught to me to play; my grandfather played in the minors, too. Did you ever get to the big leagues?”

“No, sadly, the spring I tried out for the Cardinals, I ruined my knee and it never healed properly. My career ended in Triple A. I actually was a pretty promising pitcher and I was devastated. It’s then when I discovered the Lord to be my savior.”

We spent the next few minutes talking baseball, including discussing the fortunes of the Milwaukee Brewers (my team) and the Chicago White Sox (his favorite) in the current season. He was surprised with my knowledge of the game; he wondered how skilled I was at playing the game.

“Not very good, though I was told I was a good fielder, but I couldn’t throw hard or far and I was a weak hitter,” I admitted. “But I love the gracefulness of the game.”

I was surprised how he warmed up to me after a while; he still insisted on treating me as a boy, but he did say he’d study the matter more fully. He agreed that I could still be friends to Maryann, but he said she’d have to tell him about every one of our meetings.

“You seem like a nice young man, even if I’m appalled that you are wearing a skirt,” he said in dismissing me.

*****
I helped Maryann change her clothing style, persuading her to move out of the gray, long skirts she wore, into something a bit more colorful, while adhering to her father’s strict conservative dress code. I taught her how to put on modest bits of makeup to add color to her face and highlight her lips and eyes.

“I don’t want my father to get too upset with the changes, though,” she warned me.

Whether he noticed it or not, he apparently didn’t stop his daughter’s slow transition from a dowdy girl from a throwback age into a truly pretty girl.

“Maybe your dad’s happy to see how happy you are, Maryann,” I told her one day when she wondered why her parents hadn’t objected to the change.

It wasn’t long before Maryann was accepted by my group of girlfriends. Melanie Scouter was especially welcoming to the rather ordinary-looking pastor’s daughter, even going so far as to invite her to consider trying out for the girls’ volleyball team. Perhaps she warmed up to Maryann due to my friendship with the girl, but I really think it was Maryann’s wit and openness that helped build the relationship. Even though her fashion style hardly matched ours, Maryann was just like one of the girls, same as I was. Isn’t it great having girlfriends with whom you are free to giggle and gossip?

*****
My romance with Jamie grew during the first months of school; we were able to see each other every Sunday. With his earnings and a loan from his parents, Jamie was able to purchase a used Chevrolet Malibu that was in surprisingly good shape. While it wasn’t the trendiest of autos for a young man, it served the purpose, offering both dependability and safety.

Most Sundays, he arrived precisely at eight-thirty in the morning, just in time for me to bound out of the house and join him to attend nine o’clock mass at St. Patrick’s Church. Jamie was a devout Catholic, something that at first I didn’t understand. He was such a kind and open-minded boy and I wondered how he could even abide by the strict, seemingly backward views of the Catholic Church.

“I love the music and that peace I feel in the mass,” he explained. “I find great comfort in kneeling during the mass, giving me time to reflect on who I am and how I fit into the world.”

“But look at what harm the Church as done, like those priests abusing boys and their hatred of women,” I argued.

He agreed the Church had done many wrongs, but he added: “Look at the message of Jesus, whether you believe he was man or God. He told us to love one another as we love ourselves, even testing our love of Him by how we treat the ‘least’ of our brothers and sisters. That’s the message I get out of going to mass.”

One Sunday afternoon, just before he was to leave to drive back to his grandparents’ place, we nestled together on the sofa in our living room, watching a Chicago Bears-Green Bay Packer football game; it was the longest standing rivalry in professional football (and one of the bitterest). It was the only thing we ever really argued about.

We turned the sound off during the halftime break, taking the quiet time to snuggle a bit closer, kissing and caressing. It was heavenly, so much better than the arguing we had engaged in just a few minutes earlier over a disputed play; naturally, we each saw the play differently, each with our own eyes clouded with either green and gold of the Packers or the dark blue of the Bears.

“Jamie,” I asked as we backed off a particularly intoxicating kiss, “If we marry, do I have to convert into a Bear fan?”

“No,” he laughed. “You can just be a stupid Packer fan.”

“And you can be an even more stupid Bear fan.”

We both giggled and then embraced even more passionately. Then I became serious.

“Jamie, but do I have to convert to your Church and become a Catholic?”

He looked at me, a puzzled look covering his face.

“You’re serious about marriage?” he asked.

I suddenly recovered. Marriage? How in the world could I even seriously consider such a thing? I wasn’t even a real girl yet; and then, would the Church even accept me, even recognize such a marriage?

“No, Jamie, how could I think about marriage? I’m sorry.”

“Oh Perry, my love,” he said, taking into his arms and embracing me tightly.

“It’s OK to think about marriage, Perry,” he whispered into my ear. “It would be sweet being married to you.”

“Really, Jamie. Even though I’m . . .”

“Shush,” he said, interrupting me. “Soon you’ll be all the woman I’d ever want as my wife.”

"Jamie, I love you so much.”

He smiled, caressing my hand that felt fragile and tiny in his massive, but gentle grasp. He kissed me.

“Just imagine if you hadn’t seen your ‘Ask Perry and Cindy’ blog,” he said softly. “We’d have never met.”

“Was my advice to you any good?” I asked, teasingly.

He said nothing, but drew me closer into his hug and we cuddled tightly together, enjoying each other. We never turned the sound back on the television to watch the second half. We forgot about the Packer-Bear football game that afternoon.

Apparently, my advice column was a success at least for Jamie and me. Someday, perhaps, I might become Mrs. Jansson. It has a nice sound, doesn’t it?