It's often said that childhood memories are the clearest and sharpest we ever experience. This was certainly true in my case; my earliest recollections are a rich tapestry of image and emotion. In many respects, they laid the foundation for the person I would eventually become.

One memory in particular seems to have shaped my entire destiny.

It goes back a very long way, almost to the beginning. I doubt I was even five years old; all I can recall was a bright, golden summer, when each day followed the last in a never-ending limbo. A minute could last an hour, an hour could last a day, and a day frequently lasted forever. Time was a sweet, quiet afternoon drifting off into eternity.

Then something happened.

Something completely unexpected.

It started off with a mounting sense of excitement. We were going out for the evening, a trip downtown for dinner and a movie. The house bustled with activity as clothes were changed, shoes were shined and windows bolted down for the night. Decked out in our Sunday fineries, we piled into the car in a chattering mass of knees and elbows, a subtle mist of hair spray and aftershave tracking our every move. The dashboard glowed a soft, comforting yellow as we backed down the drive way, whooping and laughing and poking. Doors were locked, gears were shifted and the road swept by in a blur of street lamps.

This was a first time for me, a moment of surprise and revelation. I suppose I must've known all about restaurants and cinemas before that point, but they were things that belonged to the daytime world. Now everything had changed – the sudden flood of strobing neon practically overloaded my nervous system. Music blared from every corner, spectral colours flickered across the sidewalk. This was a fantasy land beyond anything I'd previously imagined.

Dinner flashed past with a rush of menus, waiters and neatly folded serviettes. There was no time for desert: the show started at eight and the box office was sure to be crowded if we arrived late. A small queue was just starting to form as Dad secured our tickets. Jostling our way through the lobby, we followed a uniformed usher into a darkened gallery, taking our seats just in time for the Coming Attractions.

This was one of the biggest events of my life up to that stage. We weren't just seeing a movie, we were seeing a scary movie – the kind I wasn't even allowed to watch at home. I also had some idea what it was about – my sisters had been talking all about it on the ride into town. It was set in The Olden Days, when men wore top hats and ladies wore long, bell-like dresses. There were no werewolves, vampires or demons, but there was a mad scientist who drank a potion and turned into a monster (or something). Like most kids, I loved a good fright every now and then, especially since spook-flicks were strictly off limits for me. This was shaping up to be the best night of my life.

Truth be told, it was … but not for reasons I was thinking.

The movie was far better than I'd expected. Dr Jekyll transformed into a suitably monstrous Hyde, ruthlessly terrorizing the gas-lit streets of London. Women shrieked in terror as the hideous creature descended on them; stalwart Bobbies plunged through the fog in swift pursuit. Torch-wielding mobs raged through dank urban catacombs, blood spattered across back-alley walls in a crimson shower. Needless to say, there was plenty of lurking and skulking about in cobweb-strewn passageways.

However, the best was yet to come.

Thirty minutes in, Detective Abberdine of Scotland Yard was chasing Mr. Hyde through the Whitechapel labyrinth. After several hair-raising encounters (and equally riveting escapes), the trail eventually led to a Soho den of iniquity known as The Judas Pit. Accompanied by his intrepid band of constables, Abberdine burst into the raucous music hall...

And here is where my story truly begins.

This was my very first introduction to The Cancan.

Up on the screen were eight beautiful young women, dancing with their skirts over their waists. Twirling swiftly before the camera, they whipped their petticoats from left to right, openly displaying their underwear to the audience. Black suspender stockings enhanced their slender, tapering legs, lending a sharp contrast to their glaringly white crinolines.

Shrieking with delight, the girls cantered before the footlights, turning cartwheels and handsprings to reveal their lavishly frilled panties. At one point, they spun round, flipping their dresses up at the back. Plump, round bottoms were presented to a roaring crowd, jiggling back and forth in time to the music.

I was utterly entranced by this spectacle. I sat staring up in open-mouthed astonishment. My heart raced like a trip hammer, a wave of liquid heat swept through my veins. I was literally on the edge of my seat, fingernails digging into the faux-leather arm rests. This was - without exception - the most thrilling second of my brief existence...and it altered my perceptions forever.

The image was permanently imprinted on my consciousness, preserved in deepening layers of awe. I went home that night with a thousand questions ringing through my head: who were those girls, what was the dance called? Why were they doing it, why would they flash their knickers to a room full of drunken, cheering strangers? Did they actually enjoy it? They certainly seemed to, no denying that.

We got home around ten PM, almost two hours past my regular bedtime. I should have been dead on my feet, but my mind was filled with visions of swirling petticoats. Climbing into my short cotton PJs, I replayed the scene over and over: the music, the dancing, the beautiful, smiling chorus girls. And the underwear, of course. Mostly the underwear. The panties.

They'd been deliberately showing off their panties. It was no accident, no momentary hint of satin, like when a girl goes ice-skating or country dancing. They'd been holding up their dresses on purpose, so that everyone could see their undies. On purpose. The implications left me speechless.

I fell in love with the cancan that night. It was the beginning of an affair which would span decades.

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"A cold thrill seemed to run the length of Casey's spine as he surveyed the garish spray of satin petticoats. In a few minutes, he'd be zipped up into this - this party dress – and sent out on stage to make a public spectacle of himself. It wasn't fair! Why was she doing this to him? Hovering at the brink of hysteria, Casey looked up at his teacher, his eyes huge and moist and imploring: "Miss Deane, I can't do it, I just CAN'T!! I - I'm a BOY, not a girl!!!'"

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Being chosen for a pivotal role is an honor in any production, even one so humble as Chamberlain Academy's school concert. I should have felt flattered; should, in fact, have felt ecstatic. Oddly enough, the only thing I felt was confusion. Confusion bordering on anxiety. And that was the strangest part, at least at first.

I've been treading the floorboards since my sixth birthday. I've appeared in children's pantomimes, dance recitals, and mannequin parades without number. Stage fright never entered into the equation, I was a decorated veteran of the stage. No, something else was fueling my apprehension. They'd given me no choice in the matter. I'd been conscripted, press-ganged into service. And where was the honor in that?

I reasoned initially that Ms Ramsey had chosen me for my background in dance and movement, which theoretically gave me an advantage over all the other boys in the dance club. But the end of the day, it was only a slight advantage. And that's why her choice seemed so baffling. There were at least three other boys who could have taken the part. Syd Chambers had studied classical ballet. Scott Bowers was the district ballroom champion, and Johnny Slash had won medals at the state finals. All three were eminently suited for the role.

Of course, Ms Ramsey wouldn't have chosen any of them; in point of fact, they'd never even been in the running. At the end of the day, they just didn't look right. It had to be me, because nobody else could possibly fulfill the requirements. The reason should have been obvious, blatantly obvious in fact, but I didn't care to admit it to myself at the time. Couldn't admit it to myself, might be more accurate. As it was, I was utterly mortified when I heard I'd be playing a girl's part in the school production.

They were presenting an Olde Tyme Music Hall at the end of August, a musical extravaganza which seemed to incorporate half the school. The show featured a Moulin Rouge number harkening back to the nightclubs and cabarets of nineteenth century Paris, slated to be the highlight of the production. Chamberlain Academy was renowned for its theater department, and no expense had been spared in terms of costume, lighting and set design. Ms Ramsey had promised the local press a riveting performance of spectacular proportions, and nothing would prevent her from keeping her word. Only problem was: Chamberlain Academy was an all-boy's school.

And I was the only one capable of dancing the French Cancan.

"The cancan? Ms Ramsey…I'm a boy."

I felt my cheeks tingling with embarrassment. My voice quavered with dismay; she couldn't be serious, couldn't expect him to humiliate myself in front of the entire school. My head spun with a feverish blend of shame and excitement. I knew Ms Ramsey extremely well, she'd been teaching me since the fourth grade. She would force me to go through with this, overriding my protests without a second thought. I could be certain of that much at least.

"Really? I hadn't noticed," she replied, smiling to herself, "all the same, I'm afraid there's really no alternative."

I was standing by her desk in the staffroom, patiently attempting to negotiate a role of lesser importance, one which didn't involve wearing a dress and about ten pounds of petticoats. Ms Ramsey was sitting in her computer chair, absently drinking a coffee. Nestles' cafe au lait; all of France in a cup.

"Anyway," she continued offhand, "I've already spoken to your Mother, and she's given her OK. Seemed rather pleased by the idea, as a matter of fact."

Yes, I could well imagine my Momma laughing down the phone at that one. She'd always had a rather sadistic sense of humor where her son was concerned. Worse still, she and Ms R were as thick as thieves, having worked together on half a dozen local productions. I decided to press on despite the hopelessness of the situation. There was too much at stake to give in without a fight.

"I can't do it, Mrs Ramsey. It's a girl's dance. Everyone will laugh at me."

"No, I doubt that very much," she answered, calmly sipping from her Starbucks mug, "Mikki, it may have escaped your attention, but half the cast will be dolled up as women. Most of your friends are in the chorus, they'll all be wearing dresses in the Moulin Rouge sketch."

"This is different," I replied, knowing that I'd be doing the cancan en solo. The rest of the guys would just be standing in the background, playing bar maids and waiters. It wasn't as if they had to raise their skirts and show off their underwear to like half the town. We weren't discussing the Macarena here. This was the cancan, one of the most celebrated (and notorious) routines of the modern era. It would require weeks of training and rehearsal to master; weeks at the very least. Visions of frilly white panties and long black stockings filled my head.

"I guess you're right," Ms Ramsey agreed reasonably enough, "the cancan's a tricky and rather complex number. That's why I chose you. We need the best, and you're the one, Mikki. You should feel honored."

Honored, I thought ruefully. This was going to ruin my life. I could already hear the jeers and catcalls that would follow me for the rest of the year. There were names for boys who like to dress up in women's undies. The laughter would never stop, even if I was doing it under protest.

"Can't you bring in one of the girls from Saint Brigit's?" I asked, casting haplessly about for a loophole, an escape route from this nightmare. This was my proverbial last-ditch gambit. Saint Brigit's College was the Catholic girls' school down the road, they often collaborated with Chamberlain Academy on the annual drama festivals.

"Can't spare any," Ms R explained conversationally, "we need them all for the grand finale right after your solo. Sorry, but it seems like you're out of luck, Mikki. Good thing you have a fantastic pair of legs."

I felt a soft, crimson flush invading my features. Was she deliberately taunting me, taking pleasure in my evident discomfort? Adults could be incredibly cruel sometimes, especially when they had enough power to pull rank. She must have known how embarrassed I felt, must have known that this would make me the laughing stock of the entire school. I was already halfway there, thanks to my Mother's insistence that I study dance and movement. Flashing my panties in the cancan would only make things worse. A hundred times worse, a thousand times.

"Mrs Ramsey…I can't do this. I'm not a girl."

I glanced around the staff room, hearing muted chuckles from the other teachers. They were all enjoying this, enjoyed seeing me robbed of my fragile adolescent dignity, reduced to a pleading infant. And why not? I was a child after all, my feelings didn't matter in the least. I shifted listlessly from foot to foot, almost dancing with frustration. Ms Ramsey regarded my performance with considerable amusement.

"Well, it's good to see you're getting your practice in early," she remarked, setting the mug down on her desk, "though I think we'll have to work on your pat en l'air. Rehearsals begin tomorrow at three thirty, Mikki. See you then."

I opened my mouth to make one final decisive complaint, but paused mid-sentence as she hit me with a massive dose of Teacher's Eye. I dropped my gaze immediately, wilting like a frozen rose. The decision had been made and nothing would alter the verdict. At barely sixteen years of age, I had no defense against The Eye, and Ms R was a world-class exponent. It was over, I was beaten.

Same as always.

I turned towards the staff-room door, feeling used, manipulated, confused. It was so blatantly unjust – she was an adult, a teacher, someone who was supposed to inspire faith and trust. Now she was going to force me into a skirt, subject me to the scorn and derision of the whole community. Face downcast to the floor, I headed for the hallway, dragging my steps on the scuffed and faded floor tiles.

"Oh – Mikki?" Ms R called brightly, just as I reached the open doorway. I looked back over my shoulder, eyebrows raised in expectation, hoping against all logic that she'd changed her mind, that it was a joke, some astronomically improbable misunderstanding. That she'd let me off and spare me the humiliation of a lifetime.

Given the circumstances, I should have known better.

"Don't forget to wear your prettiest panties," she said, eyes sparkling with hidden mischief. And that was all it took. The entire room erupted in mirth, teachers rocked back in their chairs, cackling like a bunch of old maids over some ribald joke.

Their laughter followed me all the way down the corridor.

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Tracy Lane, 2013/2021.
Released into the Public Domain.

Royal Flash

Snapshots from the childhood we should have had :)

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Note: the protagonist of this story is biologically male but looks anatomically female.

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

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

Here's how it happened:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Casey Rodgers waited back stage at the Civic Center, his tummy fluttering with excitement. It was shownight for his dancing school, and everyone was rushing about frantically preparing for their numbers. Very soon, he'd be out on stage dancing before a large audience, the culmination of months of exhausting rehearsals. The long period of training had left him as tense as a tightly strung bow.

The murmuring crowds he'd seen out in the theatre had added considerably to his last minute butterflies. The place was utterly packed with people - parents and kids, teachers and students, old folk from Chamberlain Retirement Village. Hundreds of interested parties, all turned out in their Sunday fineries to cheer and whistle and hoot as the latest generation of Fred Astaires wove through their steps.

All those faces, all those eyes, turned up towards the stage!

Casey took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He really had nothing to worry about. He and his troupe were doing a Broadway style tap-dog number; complicated and tricky at times, but none too difficult after so many hours of repetition. It was pretty silly, really. He knew he'd perform the drill without a hitch, he'd done it at least a thousand times before. But then, he always felt this way on shownight.

Turning away from the curtains, he walked back towards the dressing rooms. Backstage was currently in a state of siege; girls running everywhere in tutus and leotards, boys decked out in vests and tails climbing the wings. A gabble of mothers trailed close behind, fussing and scolding, calling for order above the din.

Well, at least I've got half an hour to practice, Casey thought, glancing around in the general chaos, if I can just find a spare corner with enough space to tap a shoe. He considered going outside and using the loading bay, but decided against it. Didn't want miss his curtain call; he'd never hear the end of it. He pushed his way over towards the stairs leading to the changing areas. Everyone seemed to be down here, the dressing rooms were probably empty.

"Casey. CASEY!!"

"Huh?" Casey whirled towards the voice.

It was Ms Deane, his ballet teacher.

Evelyn Deane was a long, streamlined woman in her mid-thirties, willow-slim and lean hipped. Her eyes were always hard and serious, no matter what mood she was in. The woman was wading through a cloud of Lilliputian Kylies, her classical features marked with impatience. Casey wandered over to meet her halfway.

"There you are," she said, looking him over with a familiar knitting of the eyebrows, "I've been searching for you everywhere." Casey's heart sank roughly six fathoms; he was in trouble. No idea what the problem was, but he knew that tone: honey laced with razor blades.

"I was just looking for a place to -" he stammered in a high, uncertain voice. Ms Deane cut him off with a dismissive wave of her hand.

"You'll have to get changed again. You're on in ten minutes," she said, gesturing for him to follow her up the stairs. He hurried along behind, not quite certain what his teacher had meant. As far as Casey knew, he was already in costume: black top, black jeans, and size five work boots. What was going on here?

"I thought I was on in half an hour, Ms Deane," the boy protested fretfully, "I'm in the Tap-dog number."

"Not any more. Toby Macklin will be taking your place."

"What?"

"You're out of the Tap-dogs, Casey."

"Why?" Casey exclaimed, still not understanding. He'd spent what seemed like six years perfecting his routine, and now Ms Deane was tearing it out from under his feet.

"Look, we don't have a lot of time, Casey," Ms Deane explained, shooing him up the stairs, "Janey North just twisted her ankle and we need someone to replace her. You'll be taking her place."

"What?"

"You're taking Janey's place".

"Janey North? But she's in -"

Suddenly, Casey understood. Everything. He gaped up at his teacher, his face a mask of disbelief. Janey North was one of the girls in the Montmartre number, the one everybody had been talking about for the last three months. Casey's eyes widened in dawning horror.

"But she's doing the can-can, Ms Deane!" Casey wailed, "I can't do that! I'm - you - you'll have to get some one else!!"

To be continued...

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Having read thus far, you're doubtlessly aware that my sister and I were incorrigible knicker-flashers, making it more or less inevitable that we'd get 'round to dancing the cancan at some point. We'd both studied gymnastics since early childhood and used to impress our friends with various tricks we learnt down at the youth center - handstands, back flips, step-overs ect - anything that would "accidentally" display our undies in the playground. Given the circumstances, it was only a matter of time before we discovered the acrobatic joys of La Chahut.

If I remember correctly, we first started playing "Moulin Rouge" when I was about nine years old. It was a long weekend, our parents were out for the day and Lydia and I were watching TV from the living room floor. The cartoons were mostly finished for the day, the only thing worth watching was Rising Stars, a singularly lackluster talent quest where kids of no fixed ability competed for prizes nobody actually wanted. Our concentration normally wandered during the mid-morning dead zone, but on this occasion, there was something that definitely caught our interest.

One of the acts was a troupe of four girls dressed in bright red chorus outfits, complete with full circle petticoats and frilly white panties. Lydia and I watched in wide-eyed fascination as they whirled through their routine, which was mainly pirouettes and high kicks (although they finished the number by revealing their panty-bottoms to the camera).

Both of us were utterly intrigued by what we'd just seem. For my part, I'd always thought that only grown-up women danced the cancan. Neither of us had ever really imagined that girls our age might dance it too; certainly not until they were old enough to wear lipstick and make-up. Yet, here was the living proof, broadcast over the airwaves in glorious monochrome. And if they could dance the cancan on national television...

Lydia and I exchanged the briefest of looks, communicating on silent wavelengths beyond the reach of modern science. The thought of showing off my underwear in public was kind of exciting - almost intoxicating - and I could tell she was thinking precisely the same thing.

After the program finished, we got up and walked out to the rumpus room, guided by some innate telepathy shared by close siblings. Not a word had been exchanged beforehand, but we'd already decided what we were going to do. There was a full-length cheval mirror leaning against the back wall, a cast-off antique handed down to us by some nameless great-aunt. We pulled it out to a more central position and immediately started playing house in front of it, giving each other the occasional side-long glance to confirm we were still on the same page.

We went through our usual catalog of domestic role-plays, warming up for the main event. We were both pretty eager to start the morning's panty-flashing festivities, but we had to observe the mandatory protocols. Seven interminable rounds of hide-n-seek later, Lydia eventually decided it was time to get the show on the road.

About time, I thought, feeling my temperature rise by slow degrees. We'd had the house to ourselves all morning, but our folks could arrive home at any minute. If we were going through with this, we had to do it now. As in right now, this instant!

Taking our customary positions at either side of the rumpus room, we raised our arms and spun two cartwheels in front of the mirror. This was the unspoken signal I'd been waiting for, the moment the performance would finally begin. My pulse was already ticking in the side of in my throat. With our gymnastic background, we'd be much better than the girls on TV; we were far more agile and limber.

We warmed up for around five minutes, spurring each other on to greater feats of acrobatic prowess, whipping across the floor in a swirl of hands, knees and forearms. Our feet seemed to brush the ceiling as we plummeted through our opening set. At one point I saw Lydia bounce off the sofa in a graceful mid-air spiral, executing an effortless double somersault. I followed with a triple handspring across the room, finishing up with a back-step dismount...

And then we were ready.

The only trouble was, we weren't exactly dressed for it. Lydia was wearing jeans, I was wearing shorts, and we weren't "officially" dancing the cancan yet. We needed an excuse to ease into the new role (because, believe it or not, that's exactly how young girls think). I looked over at my sister, knowing she'd take the lead in this instance. As always, Lydia had the perfect solution and - as always - she never failed to deliver.

"I can't stretch in these jeans," Lydia said with an exasperated gesture, "they're too tight to do cartwheels in."

"Same with my shorts," I replied in the same dismissive tones.

Lydia shrugged her shoulders and started fumbling with her belt, undoing the top button of her Levis.

"We'll just have to take them off," she remarked in a tone of utter resignation, as if we had no other choice.

Once she'd peeled down her jeans and stepped lightly out of them, I removed my black cotton culottes, dropping them onto the sofa without a backward glance. I felt an unusual flutter in my tummy as I straightened up, unconsciously tugging down on my t-shirt. While the hem reached to about six inches above the knee, I imagined it only barely covered the trim of my underpants.

Lydia stood watching me from the left side of the mirror, a slim, leggy girl in an over-sized tunic and long white knee-socks. After a few seconds hesitation, she gathered up the right side of her shift, exposing her bare thigh almost up to the hip. Eyebrows raised with an unspoken question, she glanced in my direction, then tilted her face towards the cheval. Are you ready? No words were necessary; I simply nodded my answer and the performance began.

Flipping our "skirts" clear up to our throats, we launched into an impromptu routine, cart-wheeling across the floor in front of the mirror. Crossing over from right to left, we adjusted our speed to allow our hemlines to fall away, revealing our tummies, thighs and panties at precisely the same moment. I was wearing a pair of white cotton knickers that came all the way up to the belly-button; Lydia, being a few years older, wore shiny nylon full briefs – glossy red with lacy inserts on the sides.

Next, we experimented with various dance steps – high kicks, flip-flops and hand-springs, trying to recall the cancan in exact detail from the numerous movies and TV shows we'd seen over the years. At one point, Lydia bent over backwards and kicked her legs into the air one at a time (she was always more supple than me) resulting in her t-shirt creeping all the way down to her bra.

I followed this up with a point-perfect handstand, parting my legs in a classic aerial split. My light yellow tunic turned completely inside out, hanging tenuously from my shoulders and exposing my whole body from neck to toe. I could feel the cool afternoon air on my bare torso, raising a buzz of goose flesh along my tummy.

Precisely at that moment, I realized the windows to the rumpus room were wide open, and giggled with pink-faced embarrassment. I dropped down back onto my feet, smoothing out my clothing and wondering how much the neighbors had seen. Lydia asked what was wrong, and after I explained, we decided to preserve our dignity as best we could. Calling an end to the afternoon's activities, we drew the curtains and climbed back into our clothes, trying not to snicker at how silly we felt. If any of the local boys had seen us, we'd never live it down!

Needless to say, fear of exposure didn't deter us very long. The temptation to flash our panties to the world was irresistible. The very next morning after breakfast, we headed straight down to the rumpus room to continue practicing our faux-cancan. Jeans were shucked, hemlines were raised and pristine white knickers went on open exhibition.

Our rehearsal began with the curtains closed, but after a while, Lydia found an excuse to throw them open, claiming that the room was getting too hot. Nothing could have been further from the truth, of course: summer had long since departed and autumn conditions had kept the house cool for weeks.

I raised no objections – despite my earlier misgivings, the idea of being caught doing the cancan made my pulse race with excitement. I was certain Lydia that felt the same way; if anybody happened to walk past our window and see our underpants, we'd just have to deal with it.

After we'd worked out a satisfactory dance number, we took a short break to discuss our progress, determining that tunics and t-shirts just weren't right for the cancan. Still flaunting our undies, we ran up to our rooms and started rummaging around our closets for more suitable attire.

As it happened, Lydia had a nice, long full-circle skirt with broad lace trimmings, almost exactly what she was looking for. I had a high-waisted party dress with puffy sleeves and "Spanish" ruffles around the hem. It wasn't as long as Lydia's skirt, but I knew it would be perfect for twirling about the room!

Once we'd finished assembling our costumes, we swept back downstairs to compare outfits. It turned out we'd also been more selective in our choice of underwear. The subject was virtually unavoidable; the first thing I asked Lydia was what color panties she had on. Naturally enough, she was more than willing to oblige.

Lifting her skirt in the mirror, Lydia revealed a pair of black satin knickers, shimmering full briefs with a garish red trim around the legs. My eyes practically bulged out of their sockets when I saw them, I didn't know she owned anything so undeniably cheeky. Apparently, they'd been a birthday present from one of our older cousins, but she'd never had a reason to wear them until now. You can probably imagine how jealous I was at that moment - Lydia got all the best stuff!

Reading my expression with a well-practiced eye, she asked if I was wearing anything special. I responded by stepping forward with my right foot and raising my dress to my chin. As a general rule, I only wore plain white cottontails, but I also had a set of incredibly girlie underthings hidden at the back of my closet. Like my sister, I didn't get much chance to wear them out, but today seemed the perfect opportunity.

I'd chosen a pair of pastel pink sissy-pants with delicate lace frills all over the sides and bottom. A dainty floral pattern decorated the front, barely visible against the sheer, rosy fabric. They were, without question, the cheekiest little panties I had in my entire wardrobe.

Gazing at my reflection in the mirror, my head spun at the thought of showing them off: quite suddenly, I was secretly hoping that somebody - anybody - might be looking in through the window right now. These knickers were just too darned pretty to cover up.

Lydia sidled up next to me, still holding her skirt high over her waist. In spite of my overwhelming embarrassment, I still couldn't help grinning with secret mischief. I was looking forward to this – and it seemed a pity there would be no-one else to witness our performance.

Posing together in the cheval, Lydia asked me if I was ready to begin. Raising my dress as far as it would go, I nodded my assent, and we started into our routine.

"You ready?" she asked, nodding in my general direction.
"Yeah," I replied, carefully shifting my center of balance.
"OK. On the count of three. One -"
"Two-"
"THREE!"

And suddenly, directly behind us – the sound of a photograph being taken.

Misha Waverley adjusted his beret as he made his way along Lyndhurst Road. It was late October and the wind carried a chill promise of snow. The breeze was particularly brisk down here in the middle of town, where the office blocks cast their long morning shadows. Misha glanced at his watch; his appointment was for half-ten, which left him five minutes to find the place he was looking for. He hastened his pace a little, his tangled blond hair whisking out in the Autumn mistral.

He saw the sign as he crossed the intersection at Mansfield Avenue: a large orange marquee reading LACE & GARTERS in brilliant mauve letters. Setting off from the sidewalk, he scanned both sides of the crossing, anxiety stamped on his features. If anyone from school saw him sneaking into a dancewear store he'd spend the rest of his life eating lunch with the geek brigade.

Maybe worse.

Having ascertained that the street wasn't crawling with informants from the nerd squad, Misha strolled across the intersection and made his way to the store's front entrance. It was essential to look calm, relaxed - the least sign of guilt would expose him in a second. It had taken all of his courage to come this far, and even now he wondered if he'd have the nerve to go through with his plan.

He paused outside the shopfront's display window, struggling to control his galloping heartbeat. The window bore a fifties-style illustration of a young woman twirling in a ballroom dress, skirts flying up around her waist. The logo read: LACE & GARTERS!! SPECIALISTS IN COUNTRY, LINE AND BALLROOM DANCEWEAR. Beneath that, in smaller lettering; Custom fittings available on request.

Gazing in through the plate glass, Misha made out rack upon rack of glittering costumes; gowns, leggings, tutus, leotards - and petticoats. Hundreds of them by the look of things. The sight did little to sooth his racing pulse, although it did steel his resolve somewhat. Here he was, wavering on the footpath while the object of his desire was virtually within arm's reach. All he had to do was open the door and step inside.

A small silver bell rang over Misha's head as he walked into the store. He hesitated two paces in, staring around in awed silence. A gust of warm air caressed his face with insubstantial fingers; he felt as if he'd slipped into some glittering fantasyland. The store was literally dripping with satin; dresses and skirts hung in rows stretching off to infinity. Sequins sparkled like tiny clustered diamonds, black velvet rippled in luxuriant folds everywhere he looked. His face was literally glowing with child-like wonder.

"May I help you?"

Misha glanced around with a start. For a moment he couldn't locate the owner of the voice; then he saw a tallish woman looking over a rack of body stockings. She had dark blue eyes and curly brown hair tied back in a short ponytail. Misha estimated her age to be maybe forty. She stood regarding him with a sharp, business-like expression.

"Oh, hi ..." the boy replied, a little hesitantly, "I'm Michelle Waverley, I called you last Wednesday. I have an appointment at ten-thirty."

He cast a nervous eye around the shop, noticing for the first time there were close to a dozen customers wandering between the rows. Most of them were female, and all of them seemed to be looking at him. An identical pair of Mariah Careys were standing in the hosiery section, diligently comparing stockings whilst casting him suspicious glances. Misha tried to ignore them, focusing on what the tall woman was saying.

"Appointment?" she repeated, stepping out from behind the clothes rack. She was wearing black slacks and a loose yellow t-shirt. Her name tag read HI, I'M JUDY. A tape measure hung carelessly about her neck. She folded her arms neatly over her ample breasts, her face engraved with skepticism (or so he imagined).

"Yes - an appointment," Misha answered uncomfortably, "for a costume fitting."

The woman's features visibly softened.

"Oh - right," she said brightly, "you're the girl who called a few days ago. You're in a musical ... Calamity Jane or something?"

Misha began to relax.

"Yes, that's right. I'm in the chorus."

That was his story, his rationale for visiting a costumier specializing in girls' dance wear. He had grappled with the problem for weeks, ever since his latest transvestic obsession had emerged. Obsession being the operative word in this case; an inexplicable desire to own a ballroom crinoline had seized him over a month ago. Irresistible as well as inexplicable, to be precise. It had tortured his evenings, invading his dreams and robbing him of sleep for nights on end until a solution had finally occurred to him. It seemed to make perfect sense at the time, and appeared to be working now.

"In the chorus?" Judy asked, "well, let's see what we can do for you." Indicating the direction with a wave of her hand, she led him through an aisle of spandex tights, then called out to the back of the show room: "Donna! That girl's here, the one from Chamberlain Musical Society. The one we talked about."

"Who?!" A peppery, somewhat crusty voice, tinged with mild annoyance.

"The one who's playing the dance hall girl. She's come in for a fitting."

"Oh, right."

Misha followed quietly, almost squirming with embarrassment. The one who's playing the dance hall girl. She'd virtually shouted it at the top of her lungs. Everyone in the store was staring at him now, he could feel their eyes drilling into his shoulder-blades. He kept his face to the floor, hoping to conceal the rosy flush invading his cheeks.

Still, he really had no reason to hide his face in shame. His charade was going according to plan. No one in the store suspected he was actually male.

At thirteen, Misha Waverley had the face and figure of an adolescent girl, his natural beauty enhanced by a cascade of thick golden hair. As a child, he'd wondered if he'd somehow been born in the wrong body, sometimes believing that there was a pretty young girl locked deep inside him. In recent weeks, this female persona seemed to have taken on a life of her own, almost compelling him to undertake this risky little enterprise.

Amazingly enough, the masquerade was working fine, despite his earlier misgivings. All he'd needed was a dab of make-up and a pair of low-hipped jeans.

"Over here," Judy said, taking him through to a traditional oaken counter at the back of the show room. A thin, bird-like woman sat behind the cash register, her face marked with the lines of perpetual irritation. She was reading a Silhouette romance, and like Judy, she carried a measuring tape around her neck.

All similarity ended there, however. Her tag read MRS D. ADDLER. No customer-friendly "Hi, I'm Donna" for this blue-rinse matriarch: call me Missus, or get the hell out of my shop. She looked up as Misha approached the counter, scrutinizing him through a pair of expensive, gold-rimmed glasses.

"So, you're playing a saloon girl, then?" she asked rather sourly, adopting the tone of a woman who expected the worse of everyone she met.

"Yes, Ma'am," Misha replied automatically. His parents had always taught him to respect his elders, regardless of how they approached him ('courtesy costs you nothing', was one of his mother's favorite sayings, although he frequently doubted the veracity of this particular quotation). Mrs D. Addler shot her partner a sidelong glance, eyebrows raised.

"You hear that? 'Yes, Ma'am'. Pretty and polite. I'm impressed."

"Sign of good breeding," Judy remarked airily.

"Yes, I'm sure," Donna replied, narrowing her eyes to a razor-edged squint. Leaning over the counter-top, she studied the boy’s slim waist; his small, pouty mouth; his innocent, doll-like features. Misha shifted nervously beneath that protracted, unblinking gaze. What was she staring at? Had she penetrated his disguise? He fought down a tide of rising panic, knowing that a clear head was essential to maintaining his cover.

"How old are you?" the older woman finally asked.

"Thirteen, ma'am."

"A little young to be dressed like that, aren't you?" she demanded testily.

Misha almost fainted with relief. The old biddy was referring to his choice of clothing: a skimpy purple tank top that barely reached past his ribs; a pair of faded blue Levis with the top button undone and the zipper split open to reveal his lacy pink underpants. His pert young belly-button was clearly visible, poking out above the denim rim of his jeans.

"Oh, this is just the Brittany Spears look," Misha explained in his high sing-song voice, striking an unconscious pose. "Everybody's dressing like this." Even the boys, he added silently. Mrs D. Addler remained singularly unimpressed by this disclosure.

"Yeah? Well, any daughter of mine went out dressed like that wouldn't sit down for a week." End of conversation. Pushing her glasses back up her nose, Mrs A went back to her Silhouette, dismissing Misha from her thoughts. He bit his lip, wondering if he'd made the mistake of a lifetime, coming down here dressed as a girl.

"Don't mind her," Judy said, placing a light hand on Misha's shoulder, "she's just angry because somebody dropped a house on her sister. Come on, let's get you started. I think we've got what you're looking for over here. We supplied costumes for the Chamberlain Arts Festival, did I tell you that? Anyway, there was a wild west routine in that one: Okalahoma, if I remember correctly ...."

She ushered him away from the counter, prattling on like a country housewife deprived of company. Misha remembered to breath again, realizing that neither of these women were questioning his motives. They'd swallowed his story, accepted him as a girl. His secret was safe. All the same, his complexion continued to darken. At the end of the day, he was still a teenaged boy, no matter how feminine he may have looked. He was taking an enormous chance. If anyone here discovered he wasn't actually female, he'd be -

".... with your underwear."

(ohuh?)

Judy's words sliced through Misha's reveries like a pizza knife through mozzarella. What did she just say? Something about taking off his jeans and t-shirt? No, that couldn't have been right. He'd only come in to have his measurements taken, he didn't need to undress for that. Granted, he wanted to buy some of those petticoats he'd seen through the window, but he didn't need to -

Misha suddenly noticed where his guide was leading him.

(wha -?)

A prickling of goose-flesh thrilled down Misha's naked arms as they approached the accessories display. His warm pink blush suddenly flared a torrid crimson; a tremor ran through his thighs. Excitement filled his tummy like some hot, sweet liqueur. All thought of being discovered was driven instantly from his mind. He had something else to fixate on now, something which froze the breath in his lungs.

She was taking him to the Lingerie Stand.

To be continued...

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