Schoolboys Made to Wear Blouses
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I remember the nurse dressing me in knickers and a girl's vest (which I remember fastened at the back of the neck) and this little, very pretty, pink check dress with a small bow at the waist. I remember flouncing around in the dress to the amusement of the nurses, who immediately dubbed me 'Rosie' and I remember pestering one of the nurses for a ribbon to put in my hair.
When it came to the time to resume wearing my own clothing, I resisted the nurses who were trying to remove my dress to such effect that in the struggle the lovely dress was torn and later I cried myself to sleep.
But this was not the beginning of my cross dressing. Long before that experience I had frequently slipped upstairs to my mother's bedroom and donned her nightdress to flounce in front of the long mirror. My mother used to take a clothing catalogue which I read avidly for pictures of women's clothes illustrating the wares on sale.
When I had first learned to form letters of the alphabet, I remember lying on the floor with a pencil and writing in the margin of the catlogue the words 'I am a lady'. Fortunately for the safety of my secret I misspelt the last word 'laddie', which was not at all what I meant but which caused no eyebrows to rise.
I can now look back with amusement on those early memories, and on the embarrassments and humiliations of puberty, adolescence, teenage crushes, the constant fear of discovery, the secret pleasures... in short, the whole gamut of emotional turmoil to which we transvestites are subjected.
I feel I have now survived to mature womanhood. I can now live as I please, banishing male clothing from my wardrobe and living as the woman I have always felt myself to be.
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Related categories: Transgender Fiction
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