The headline caught my eye immediately: “Schoolboys Made to Wear Blouses”
A headmaster was castigated for ordering a number of boys at his school to wear girls’ blouses as a punishment. It seems that the boys concerned had signed each other’s shirts as farewell momentos at the end of the school year. For ‘wilful damage’ to the shirts, the boys were marched off to the school stores where they were fitted out with girls’ blouses and made to wear them in class.
They became objects of ridicule from their classmates. Parents described the humiliation as being like the ancient punishment of putting offenders in the stocks.
As I read this story I was sitting in a train surrounded by a number of young students, mainly female. I couldn’t help noticing that all but one of them were wearing trousers. Some had men’s shirts, with the shit tails sticking out from under pullovers (which are, I believe, categorised as unisex).
Why is it normally acceptable for females to wear male clothing without any embarrassment, whereas if a male wears female clothing, he is likely to become the object of derision?
Looking back over the years to the time when I was a schoolboy, I would have given an arm to have been compelled to wear a girl’s blouse; indeed, I would have wanted to go the whole hog and don the navy knickers, gymslip and school hat as well!
I am sure I could have withstood any derision, and for me it would not have been a humiliation, but a fulfilment of all my secret inner longings. As it was, these delights had to be enjoyed in secret, when circumstances would allow.
But the news item raised another, much earlier memory in my history. I have often wondered when I first felt the need to dress and act as a female, and I can only say that the desire has been with me for as long as I can remember. There was no starting point, no specific incident that sparked it off.
As a child, aged about six, I was admitted to the isolation ward of our local hospital with a suspected serious contagious illness. Happily, it transpired that I was free of that disease, but nevertheless I had to remain in quarantine for several days.
I was allowed to move about the ward and play with the other children, but one day when I had had an unfortunate accident with my clothes, there was nothing for me to wear but a girl’s dress…
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.