by Miss Karen-Anne Brown
I plucked daintily at the ruffled hem that tickled my nyloned knee. Oh, how I loved this. I was so ashamed of my inner feelings, but, I loved this and craved this feeling of being pretty. My dress was a light orange color, with wide ruffled shoulder straps. It was a sun dress, with a wide tight waist band. It had been three years since I had last worn it.
I could hear my mother in the kitchen, humming as she prepared a light lunch for us. I was very aware of the pressure of the high instep of the three inch heeled sandals I wore on my feet. I felt, constantly, the caress of my satin panties, the tight fingered grip of my corsetry, and the dainty jewelry that adorned my neck, wrists and ears. I could smell my perfume. I could sense the halo of curls my shoulder length hair framed my pixie face with. My silk slip rustled delicately across my nyloned thighs, as I stood and went to the kitchen.
In the kitchen, I dropped a ruffled pink apron over my head, and tied the big bow at the back. "Can I help out with anything, Mom?" "No, you just relax. Now, take off that apron, and get out of my kitchen. You should know by now that two women in a kitchen is a ready formula for trouble."
"Okay." I removed the apron and went out onto the front porch to look once again at the beautiful scenery. A slight wind was teasing at my skirt hems.
I resigned myself. I knew that I never wanted to be a boy again. Girls clothes were just too exciting, to ever settle for anything less again. I was thankful that my mother understood me and that she had insisted, almost from the moment I walked in the door, that I go up to my old room and change into something more natural for me. I had not resisted. I'd willingly doffed masculinity, and gratefully once again, accepted my feminine role in my mother's house.
My room had not been changed. The pink canopied bed with its lace trimmed skirts, still dominated the room. The pictures of ballet dancers, were still on the walls. My dolls were seated prettily on the satin pillows of the bed. The vanity that I'd spent my formative years before, was still there, with all the necessary cosmetics to make me as feminine as I could be.
Three years ago, I had left home, in a desperate attempt, to, for once in my life, try to be a male. I'd enrolled in college, and I had been a miserable failure. I'd been a failure, not in my marks. I had received my degree, one year early, but, in my ability to adjust to living as a boy. It had been worse there, trying to live as a boy, than it had been growing up in a household of eight brothers, where they all knew I was a boy, but, was cast in the role of the baby sister.
When I was born, I was the last in a long line of boys. I was also very small and delicate. My mother could have no more children, and, she convinced my father, somehow, that he should agree to letting her dress me as her little daughter, for just the years before school. Unbeknownst to him, mom would go to the barn once a week, and get a small jar of the hormone creams that were used on the cows.
The result was, that by age seven, when I should have joined my brothers in school, my hair was long enough for me to sit on it. My facial features were not that of a boy. I had a delicate frame. I still did not even know that I was a boy.
My brothers knew, but they did not tell me. I grew up, being treated like a girl in a house of men, under a special umbrella of protection and favor, of a rather domineering mother. Because of my obvious feminine orientation, my father accepted the fact that I was more of a girl than a son. He let mom enroll me in school as a girl. My bothers disliked the favoritism that was poured out on me.
I did not do chores, like they did. I was allowed to stay in the house all the time, and help my mother. I was encouraged to wear pretty and soft clothing, unlike them. Mom encouraged me to learn how to run a home, to read, to paint and to study music. We were not rich, and, I was the only one allowed to take music lessons. She encouraged the artistic nature that I had, with special classes in poetry, prose and artwork. By the age of fifteen, I could make my own dresses, lingerie, cook, crochet, needlepoint and knit with a fair amount of alacrity.
Because my brothers resented the special treatment that I got, I did not get along with them at all. They would not let me join their games or anything like that. In fact, whenever I did try, Mom got very mad at me, and made me stop playing boys games. If I did not spend time with my mother, I was alone. I guess that was why I did spend so much time with her. I wanted to be just like her, she was so competent and, pretty. It just seemed that she was the wisest person in the whole world, to me, and, she was greatly respected by the men in the house. I grew up thinking that the womanly role in a home was the most valued role in life, and I just wanted to do every thing that I could, to be just like her.
She continued having me rub that special cream into my chest area, every night, for as long as I was at home. The result was, I had very small genital development, breast development, almost no hair on my body, and, my voice never changed.
