Alex(andra)‘s Story                  by: Andrea

 

I grew up in a little village in the Pennines where my father was a minister at the local Church. Our family were local and although I had no brothers and sisters I wasn’t really lonely. There were always lots of cousins around. As little children in the nineteen forties we all wore embroidered smocks. I suppose our parents weren’t very well off and they couldn’t afford new clothes for every child. So, us girls and boys wore almost identical outfits until we went to school, when we suddenly found, at the age of five or six, that the school regulations required that the boys wore shorts and the girls wore skirts. However we all came from very extended and interrelated families and all the children still played together. No one ever said that I couldn’t play skipping games because I was a boy or that my female cousins couldn’t play marbles because they were girls. So we grew up with the simple acceptance that one day some of us would be mummies and some would be daddies but with blissful ignorance of any real difference between the sexes. In fact I’m sure that until I was in my teens I thought that sex was the number after five. My family had a tradition that the younger children - by which I mean myself and my twenty or so other prepubescent cousins of various ages - put on a costume ‘play’ in the manse at Christmas. One year, I think I must of been eight or nine at the time, my favourite second cousin Wendy and I - she was a few years older - decided to invert our roles. She wanted to play the heroic male lead so I reluctantly agreed to be the fairy princess. So, she appeared in my doublet and hose and I was dressed in my aunt’s cut-down ballgown with a little wand in my hand and a silver tiara in my hair. To our preadolescent eyes our performances were quite exceptional - especially the passionate kiss at the end of the play which we had faithfully copied from a Dorothy Lamar film. Our parents didn’t agree. I was the lucky one. I was only given a lecture on ‘inappropriate behaviour’ by my dad and enrolled in the Cubs, while poor Wendy was shipped off to a girls’ boarding school. However certain things are difficult to stop. When Wendy came back in the summertime the two of us used to go to play down by the river Avon. When we were away from the village we would swap all our clothes and pretend that she was Alex and I was Wendy. Wendy was a real tomboy. She really liked dressing in my rough serge short trousers and flannel shirts. In contrast I couldn’t wait to get out of them. When I was wearing her cheap print dresses it was liberating. True, climbing trees was a little more difficult but wading across the river was easier than when one was wearing shorts. If the water was too high you just had to lift your skirts. You got your knickers a little wet but that was no problem. We gossiped a lot. I suppose we talked a lot of rubbish but it was an important time for me. We were really close to each other. So, I was very hurt when Wendy’s puberty caused to our relationship to end abruptly. After she turned thirteen she didn’t want to play with me anymore. She preferred to hang out at the café in the nearby town.

But by that time I’d got friendly with Marjory. Marjory was in my class at school and lived only a couple of roads away from my house so we often walked home together. Since her mum worked, which was quite unusual in our village at that time, she often invited me in to play. All her favourite games involved dressing up. One day she decided we would play ‘Mummies and Daddies’. But she was to be the daddy this time so she made me give her all my clothes. She was really intrigued by my cotton underpants. "What’s the little hole in the front for?" she said, pointing to the buttoned flap. Lordie, I thought, she wasn’t very clever. "It’s for peeing, silly. You only open it when you need to wee." "How very curious." She said, fingering the little white buttons. I was equally fascinated by her underwear – especially the fact that she wore two pairs of underpants. A pair of tight white cotton pants she called ‘lilies’ and then a pair of seriously elasticted blue school knickers. Anyway, since I was playing the Mummy I had to dress up in all her clothes. and pretend to make her tea and then pretend to wash the dishes. While I was standing at the sink she went upstairs to the bathroom. So there I was, dressed in her starched school blouse, her snug white cotton ‘lilies’ with their asscoiated knickers, an underskirt and a knee length pleated skirt with my arms in the sink when I saw her Mum coming up the road from the bus stop. I raced up the stairs to Marjory’s bedroom ripping off her school skirt and blouse as I ran. We changed as quickly as we possibly could before her mother opened the door, but can you imagine my profound disgust when I found that my underpants were absolutely soaking wet. Marjory’s Mum wanted me to stay for a glass of juice and a piece of cake but with my underclothes sticking to me and little drops of water running down my legs into the tops of my socks all I could think off was getting out of the house. I stammered something about being late for my tea and waddled to the door. Marjory accompanied me down the path to the front gate. "Why did you wash my pants? That was a really rotten thing to do, Marjory. My mother will kill me." Marjory adopted a very superior air. "I didn’t wash your pants! And you get what you deserve for telling a silly lie. I hope your Mummy slaps you very hard. That hole can’t be for peeing - I tried it and it didn’t work at all." I really couldn’t see why the stupid girl couldn’t manage it; I’d never had any problems. But she was right on one count, my mother was not at all pleased and she did slap me very hard. After that I didn’t want to play with Marjory. Anyway I was developing other special interests. I’d got addicted to stamp collecting and swimming.

The dressing up thing didn’t return for quite a few years. I really blame its recurrance on my Aunt Lucy. My granddad bought her a shop on the high street and she decided to specialise in ladies underwear. So, every evening after school, I would repair to the changing room of ‘Lucy’s Lingerie’ to do my homework surrounded by the biggest collection of bras, knickers and underslips in the known world. The extended family scenario meant that by the time I was twelve or thirteen I was doing a lot of unpaid babysitting for my younger cousins. I had free range of a lot of different bedrooms and laundry baskets so I suppose it was inevitable that occasionally I did a bit of dressing up. The only memories I recall now, and you must remember this was a long time ago, were trying on cousin Anne’s flame red bodice-underskirt and Elizabeth-Anne’s pink ballet tutu. I remember the latter incident quite well because I the tutu was a bit tight and I ripped the seam at the waist a little bit getting it off in a terrible hurry when my aunt and uncle came home a little bit early. I hurriedly stuck it back on the top of Elizabeth-Anne’s wardrobe and I suppose she must eventually have been blamed for tearing it. These were isolated incidents, however, and they ended abruptly when my father moved to a new parish in Kendal. By the time I was fifteen or so I found that I used to find various excuses to come home from school early. There, since my mother had started doing voluntary work in the afternoons, I would sometimes dress myself up in her silk lingerie and her petticoats and dresses. I really loved the smooth feeling of ladies’ undies close to my skin but I was always sure to fold mummy’s underwear very carefully back in her dressing table drawers long before she came home.

I really thought this particular phase of my life was all over before I went to college. Puberty really cut in for me at fifteen. I fantasised endlessly about girls even when I wasn’t too sure what I was fantasising about. I lost any confidence I had and everytime I tried to talk to a girl I just got absolutely tongue tied. I tried to discuss this with Wendy but she was a just an absolute pain in the arse, with a fixation with ‘older men,’ by which I think she meant eighteen or nineteen year olds. So eventually I found my own way. By my final year at high school I was dating a particularly buxom student nurse who, for the price of a back row cinema ticket, let me fondle her tits while she pushed her tongue deep into the back of my mouth. Then eventually there was Beth. Everyone has a Beth. We met at a college fresher’s social and dated for a few months. I was quite fixated on the girl and was almost on the verge of proposing that we would get married before we finished our degrees when she dropped me for an almost bald physics student. I was totally devastated and swore off women for ever.

By this time I was living in one of the older tenement areas on the outskirts of the city. In those days it was really difficult to find a room in university halls so, like many of my fellow students, I took lodgings. I had the good fortune, through the agency of my aunt Mavis, to find a single room in a house owned by a widow called Mrs M^cPherson. Everyone called her Mrs Mac. She had a three bedroomed flat on the third floor of a block of tenements. But, as she explained when I moved in, she only had the one room to let since she kept the guest bedroom for her niece who visited occasionally at weekends. I told her it didn’t bother me at all. My first term at college was really difficult. I hadn’t worked particularly hard at school and so I had to work much harder than I‘d anticipated at college so, I didn’t manage to get out much. Hence the difficulty with Beth - she said that I couldn’t make a commitment - by which she really meant I couldn’t take her out twice a week.

I didn’t realise that I still had the dressing-up problem until one night in late November in my first year when I found myself poking about in Mrs Mac’s washing. Very soon after I was regularly borrowing her underwear from the kitchen drying pulley and her laundry basket. Late at night, when everyone else had gone to bed, I would dress up in her bras, underdrawers and underskirts. She wore longline brassieres and very voluminous white nylon panties which came almost down to the knee where they were gathered with tight elastic and silk ribbons. I would pad the bra cups with rolled up socks and parade around my room admiring myself in the dressing table mirror - but I was always very careful to return them early in the morning. Every evening on my way back from college I had to pass a ladies hosiery shop. They always had displays of knickers and bras in the window. I found them so exciting that I had to find excuses to walk back and forth past the shop window several times. I frequently had dreams about being let loose in that shop and dressing in the underwear from the window. Eventually, after several months, I couldn’t stand it any longer. So, one cold February afternoon I summoned up all my courage and walked into the shop. The girl behind the counter said, "Good evening. Can I help you?" So I muttered out some really sad excuse that I had a twin sister who lived on a remote and unspecified island who had asked me to send her some specific items of underwear. However when she asked me about the sizes I was absolutely lost. So I said she was about my size and pointed to something in the window which I seriously fancied. This was a matching set of a bra and panties in yellow nylon. The panties were decorated with little ruffles of yellow nylon and had lacy white bows on the front. She took forever to wrap them up and then made an absolute issue of taking my money and counting out the change, making very sure that everyone in the shop knew exactly what I’d bought. It was so embarrassing. I virtually ran from the shop clutching the little brown paper bag containing my purchases and swearing that, even if I lived to a hundred, I’d never ever go though that ordeal again. However, later that evening I was ecstatic. The excitement of dressing in my own exceptionally sensual underwear was thrilling. I hid the bra and panties under my mattress during the daytime but late at night I would lock the door and walk around my room wearing nothing else. Enamoured with this new sensation I started looking at shop windows in earnest. However, it took me a further two months to summon the courage to visit another lingerie shop. This was one several miles from the one I’d bought the original bra and panties set from. I’d cased the shop a number of times and noted a pink brassiere, a pair of knickers with little roses on the sides, a suspender belt and a matching slip that I really fancied in the window. More importantly, remembering my embarrassment on the previous occasion, this time I’d done my homework. Based on my landlady’s mail order catalogue I’d worked out the correct sizes for each of the items. So, it was especially horrible when I found that the shop assistant was the same girl who had served me before in the other shop. "Hello" she said, "I suppose you want to buy some more underwear for your... er.. sister. Is she still about your size?" I know that I went very red in the face. I think I said, "No, I just need directions. Can you tell me where the number 49 bus stop is?" I felt quite pathetic and that really finished my dressing-up for almost a year. When I went home that night I ritualistically burnt the underwear I’d hidden under my bed in the kitchen stove.

Everything went pretty normally for the rest of that year. I actually made the College swimming team and I studied hard and actually got very good marks in my course. Then I went home for the summer and worked on a construction site. It was there that I met Margaret. She was a long thin blonde secretary who worked in the construction firms office. She was not really my type - but she was a good laugh. Initially she was a little perturbed at the fact that I shaved my legs but when I explained that it actually cut a tenth of a second off my time for the hundred yard’s freestyle she thought I was a serious athlete and that, and the fact that I was a student with prospects, increased my credibility enormously. With the wages from the building site I had more than enough money to show a pretty girl a good time so, after a quarter bottle of vodka, she was very good for a big hug and a bit of very passionate groping in the back seat of my parent’s car. She even suggested I meet her mother.

Consequently, I really felt I’d put the crossdressing thing behind me when I went back to college the next October. I’d tried to get into the student halls’ again but it wasn’t easy for a second year student so I eventually wrote to Mrs Mac to see if I could take lodgings with her for my second year. Surprisingly, she agreed. However, the only problem was, as she explained in her letter, that she had not expected me back so she had converted my old room into a sewing room. So, if I didn’t mind, could I take the guest bedroom.

When I moved in to Mrs Mac’s for the second time I got rather a surprise. My old room had been tiny and basic - just a bed, table and chair and an old wardrobe. The guest room was much larger and just…. pretty. There were the usual things one found in any bedroom of that period; flowery wallpaper, a threequarters bed, a dressing table, a tallboy chest, a large wardrobe and a bedside cabinet - but what made it different was the that all the soft furnishings were pastel pink and were decorated with lace frills. Moreover there was a large walk-in cupboard, almost an anteroom, in the corner. I was a little taken aback by the decor but even more surprised when I opened the wardrobe to put my things away. Inside was a tightly packed row of girls’ dresses. There was no room even for my donkey jacket and blazer so I decided to put them in the cupboard. However, this too was almost full. There were piles of shoe boxes on the floor and racks of skirts and blouses. The shelves above was bulging with sweaters and the top shelf was covered with hats. But the best, or worse, was to come. When I opened the tallboy drawers I found they were all full of ladies undies. There were two drawers full of knickers, one full of brassieres, and one with corsets and girdles and suspender belts. The deep drawers on the bottom were overflowing with underskirts of every shape, shade and hue. Even the dressing table drawers were full of bottles, jars, creams and lipsticks and an amazing amount of costume jewellery. Only the bedside cabinet was empty.

"I’m really v’ury sorry Alex," explained Mrs Mac over tea, "If a’d realised you wir coming back I’d hae kept yir room. But, a’ spent aw the summer changin’ it intae a sewin’ room an’ when ye wrote at sich short notice a’ didnae hae time tae move the stuff oot o’ the guest room. Bit a’ll dae it in time if ye’ll bear wi me."

I was biting my tongue, desperate to get back to my room, desperate to explore each and every shelf and drawer, and the very last thing I wanted was that she cleaned out the things in that room. But I was quite calm, "It’s quite all right Mrs Mac. The room is perfect, I only need the hook behind the door to hang my jackets and the bedside cabinet for my other stuff. You can leave everything else just as it is."

She seemed quite relieved. "Oh, that’s real good o’ ye Alex. A dinnae really ha’ the space in ma room fir awe that gear. A’d be real obliged if yi’d keep it there."

So that set the scene for the next six months. Every evening I’d hurry back from college, have my dinner and retire to my room to study. Except that before I began my essay or report I’d lock the door and close the curtains and then I’d select a pretty outfit from the ample selection in the wardrobe or cupboard. I’d spend the next hour or so dressing up and eventually, when I was ready (and I mean that the seams in my nylons were properly adjusted), I’d brush my hair, make myself up and then sit down, cross my legs and work on my college assignment.

The times I really looked forward to were when Mrs Mac was away and I had the entire flat completely to myself. I could dress up just how and when I pleased. So… One cold Friday in November when Mrs Mac had decided to go visit her cousins in Paisley for an extended weekend I decided to play truant from my classes and play at being elegant. First I had a slow bath with lashings of bath salts and then I shaved my legs, dried myself thoroughly and sprayed my body with cheap perfume. Next was the underwear. A white lacy bra adequately padded out with oodles of cotton wool, matching panties with panels of ruffled nylon, a half length girdle and a pair of smooth nylons. Then I dressed up in one of my favourite numbers – this time it was a pale green dress with a square cut neckline, little bows on the bodice, slightly puffed leg-of-mutton sleeves and a bouffant skirt. It had a tight waistline with a sash and a little bow at the back and it was just ever so cute. The skirt was so full it needed an empire line petticoat with tiers and tiers of lacy frills just to fill it out. It took me ages just to get the right look. The waistline of the dress was so snug that I really had to wear that really tight girdle to get it to sit just right and of course adjusting the seams of my nylon stockings took absolutely ages. When I was all done up, with my brassiere properly adjusted, my hair brushed and my lipstick, mascara and eyeshadow properly applied, I slipped on a pair of patent leather stiletto heeled shoes and swaned around playing the lady of the house for hours. I had bought a bottle of sherry a couple of weeks before when my grant cheque came through and it seemed appropriate that I had to finish it in a ladylike manner. Late in the afternoon, and I must admit I was a bit tipsy by then, I felt like a little less alcoholic refreshment - so the maid being absent for the day (that was part of my playacting) - I had to don an apron and do the chores. The main one was to wash out all the smalls I’d worn over the past week. After all, I could hardly take them to the ‘steamy’ (the communal wash house), so I filled the kitchen basin with hot water and carefully washed all my undies and nylons. Then when I had hung them up to dry on a clothes horse before the kitchen fire I took of my apron and made myself a pot of tea. I had just put the tea on to mask when the doorbell rang. I remember thinking ‘Oh bother, it’s Friday. It’s the bloody stair cleaner come for her money.’ Mrs Mac always left the money for the woman who cleaned the stairs on the hallstand. After all the trouble of getting dressed up I was in no mood to strip off and start again. So, I wiped most of the makeup off my face, wrapped a towel round my neck, opened the door a little and stuck my head round the edge.

There was a slim, elegant and very wet young woman standing there in the hallway. She was wearing a long black raincoat and had a suitcase in one hand. "Hello" she said, extending her free hand, "I’m Fiona".

"Yes. Well, what can I do for you?"

"Well… I’m Fiona. Fiona Beavers, Mrs MacPherson’s niece. I know I’m late but the train was delayed. You are expecting me, aren’t you?"

"No"

"Well I’m here anyway. So stop dithering and let me in!" With that she pushed the door and me with it and before I’d time to recover she was standing in the hall taking off her wet raincoat. Her back was towards me but she was staring at me in the hallstand mirror. "It’s Alex isn’t it?" she said smiling. "Is that short for Alexis or Alexandra?"

I nodded my head and backed towards my room. "’S’cuse me, I’ve got to change. There’s tea ready in the kitchen"

With that I slipped backwards into my room and bolted the door. Oh God! I’d really done it this time. It was one thing to dress up in private but I’d never contemplated that my secret could be discovered. And least of all by Mrs Mac’s niece. That stupid girl could ruin my life. But I’d have to try to bluff it out somehow. I ripped off the dress and high heeled shoes and changed into a sweater, jeans and a pair of training shoes. Then I threw the clothes I’d been wearing into the back of the wardrobe. When I looked in the mirror I realised that I hadn’t wiped the makeup from my face very well. So I scrubbed my face, brushed my hair, drew a very deep breath and then walked through to the kitchen.

Fiona was bending over the sink rubbing something with a tea towel. When she heard the door open she half turned and threw her hear back. Her long hair, still damp from the rain, seemed to cascade in waves down her back and she looked incredibly beautiful. Then I noticed she was holding a pair of spectacles. She held them towards me and said, "Bloody things, they always fog up in the rain and I’m half blind without them. I’ll just be a minute."

"It’s quite all right" I said, with some relief. "Just take your time. I’ll pour us both a cup of tea."

I sat down at the table and she sat down opposite to me. My hands were trembling as I poured the tea. She cradled her cup in her hands and stared at me. God, she was really something. She was slightly taller than me, maybe five foot seven or eight, but she looked like Bridget Bardotte. She had a lovely complexion, square shoulders, very prominent breasts and her hair was a mass of shimmering black silk. She was the epitome of some Greek goddess brought to earth. She hesitated for a moment and then I heard her low husky voice saying, "Well you’re Alex, my auntie’s lodger. I’m really sorry to barge in like this. But you’ve no idea how good it feels to be here - that train was an absolute misery - and I had to walk all the way from Partick Cross. But, I’m forgetting my manners. I’m Fiona, Mrs MacPherson’s niece. She did say I was coming, didn’t she?" Then she looked closely at my sweater.

"You’ve changed haven’t you?"

I thought I’d be really cool so I said, "Not that I know of."

"Yes, you have. You were all dressed up to go out earlier and now you’re dressed in sloppy old clothes. I’ve ruined your evening arriving like this. Haven’t I?"

"Not really. I mean, I wasn’t going anywhere actually. Its nice to have you here, really. Would you like another cup of tea?"

We sat facing each other across the kitchen table. Half my mind was thinking what an absolutely stunning girl she was, and the other half was racing with half formed explanations and evasions. As I straightened up with my teacup in both hands and raised it to my lips I suddenly had a most horrible feeling. My elbows brushed my chest and I realised that I hadn’t removed the padding from my bra! I quickly put my cup down and crossed my arms. I could feel the ample size of my artificial breasts swelling underneath my sweaty palms and my thumbs couldn’t help but trace out the lace patterns on my bra. I was also aware that Fiona could hardly help noticing that something was amiss.

"You’re not drinking your tea." She said, "Is there something wrong with your cup?"

"No, I’m actually rather hungry. How about you?"

She seemed to think for a long time. Then she said, "Actually, I think you’re right. I could murder a good fish supper."

That was all the out I needed. I jumped to my feet keeping my arms crossed and turned my back on her. As I left the room I said, "Oh, that’s a good idea. I’ll just nip down to the chip shop and get us two fish suppers."

However just as I got into the hall Fiona called out, "Wait a minute." So I stuck my head back round the kitchen door. "What is it."

She was laughing. "Oh, nothing really. Just that your slip is hanging out from under your sweater at the back. It might be a good idea if you tucked it into your jeans before you go out."

I looked at myself in the mirror in the hall. Sure enough, when I’d been leaning forward on the chair I’d managed to pull the dammed slip out of the back of my jeans. And there it was for anyone to see, at least six inches of very frilly white underskirt hanging down outside my sweater.

Oh bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger.

I retired to my room and got rid of the slip and bra, but not my red face. Then I went out and got the fish suppers. Fiona wolfed hers down but understandably I didn’t feel at all hungry and just picked at my chips while she prattled on about everything under the sun. I suppose that I should have been interested in her stories about the hairdressing salon where she worked and the new jazz bands who were all the rage in London but frankly I was only looking for a good exit line. Preferably one with the explicit stage direction ‘Stupid idiot makes final exit stage left, and none of the cast can remember his existence’ Finally I made some lame excuse and went to bed. As I locked and bolted the door of my room I though I heard Fiona call out, "Remember we’re going shopping tomorrow!" Then I heard her put out the lights and go to bed. I assume she slept soundly but I didn’t get a wink of sleep until just before dawn.

I didn’t wake up till well after 11 o’clock on the Saturday morning. Even then I had a pounding headache. The flat was cold and deserted and there was an empty sherry bottle lying on the carpet. Thank God, I thought, I must have been really drunk last night. That dream was horrible. I certainly have a vivid imagination. I pulled on a heavy sweater and a pair of jeans and made myself a healthy breakfast: Two cups of tea, three slices of toast, four fried eggs, five aspirin and two cigarettes. Then I deposited myself on one of the parlour chairs, lit the gas fire and tried to work out what had actually happened. I was very tired and what with the combination of the meal and the heat from the fire I just dozed off.

I didn’t hear anyone come in. In fact the first thing I remember was someone shaking my shoulder. When I managed to focus I realised that it was Fiona. Her face was flushed from the cold outside but there was no mistaking that she was the girl from last night. She was quite ravishing. While a variety of thoughts were coursing through my rather turgid brain she thrust a cup of something into my hands.

"I bought some Kenyan coffee. It’s so much better than that chicory flavoured rubbish you have. Mmm, Just smell that aroma!"

I will admit she was right. I’d never had real coffee before and it was good. So I drank my coffee and she chatted on about her shopping trip. Her big purchase was a set of something called Carmen rollers which she couldn’t wait to try out.

"Do you know what your trouble is, Alex?"

"No"

"Your hair."

"What’s wrong with my hair?"

"Well, it’s a mess."

I fingered my hair below my ears. Admittedly it was rather long - and yes, it was a bit greasy, but I couldn’t think that there was anything actually wrong with it. Fiona was looking at me with her head cocked to one side. "I could fix it, you know. Tell you what. Why don’t you go and wash your hair and then I’ll give you a trim and make it really smart"

All right, I thought, why not. After all I hadn’t been to a barbers for God knows how long and perhaps she was right - I probably needed it washed and trimmed. So I went to the bathroom and washed my hair. I usually just used soap but Fiona had obviously bought a big bottle of shampoo so I used that instead and I must say that it left my hair squeaky clean. After I’d finished I towelled it till it was just damp and went back to the front room. Fiona had put a chair in front of the fire and had arranged her scissors and other bits and pieces on a card table behind it. Actually it was rather pleasant having my hair cut. I’d never had a girl cut my hair before and the feel of her fingers on my scalp was very sensual and soothing. Before long I abandoned myself to the sensation and stopped listening to her chatter. I think she was talking about ‘split ends’ or some such piece of trade jargon. I guess I must have dozed off again because the next thing I remember was her saying "It’s all right. You can look now." Then she thrust a mirror into my hands and stood back. "What do you think?"

I’m afraid I didn’t know what to think. My blonde hair, which normally hung like rat tails over well my ears, was now transformed into a flip cut with an extravagant outward curl over my cheekbones. It was very feminine.

I choked, "What have you done?"

"I’ve styled your hair. Mind you I had to build up the volume a lot and I must have used almost a full bottle of lacquer"

"You’ve what."

"I’ve styled it properly, Silly." She pouted. "Don’t you think it suits you?" she added in a hurt little girl voice.

Well, what could I say. I didn’t want to hurt the girl’s feelings. "Oh, it’s rather nice. Thanks Fiona."

"Great" she said then added, "After all you couldn’t go out tonight with it in the mess it was."

"What do you mean, go out tonight?"

Fiona was exasperated, "Alex, have you not heard a single thing I’ve said? I told you that I managed to get two tickets for the show at the Alhambra tonight. Look, there isn’t much time. Get dressed and meet me in the hall in fifteen minutes."

When Fiona disappeared I started to get worried. This was not a very good idea. It was actually a very bad idea. It was one thing to make-believe in the safety of the house but going out was a totally different thing. However she had bought the tickets and covering my new hair with a beret probably wouldn’t difficult. So I put on my long duffel coat, slapped on a beret and pushed my hair into it and then waited for her in the hall.

Fiona looked at me quizzically. "You surely aren’t intending to go out like that!"

"What’s wrong with these clothes?" I replied. I’d admit that duffel coat had seen better days before it went to the Calcutta Cup final at Murrayfield, but my jeans were clean and my jumper was well, moderately clean’ish.

"How about everything!" was the retort. "Don’t expect me to go out with you looking like that after all the trouble I’ve gone to. You’d better change into something smart."

"These are the only things I’ve got."

"Nonsense. What about the nice dress you were wearing when I arrived?"

Oh God, we were back to that again. Obviously I’d have to confess and, in retrospect, I realise that I should have. But I couldn’t bring myself to that point so I lamely blurted out, "I can’t, it’s stained."

"Well, you have a wardrobe full of lots of other things - I’ve seen them."

So she’d been in my room. I could have sworn that I’d locked the door.

"They’re not actually mine." I stammered apologetically. "You see they really belong to a previous tenant who hasn’t come back to collect them yet. They were here when I arrived."

"Well, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind."

"I don’t know…." I was fighting for a satisfactory answer. Finally I stammered "But they are all the wrong size anyway."

Fiona was not so easily put off. "Let’s see then." She said, pushing past me into my room. Here she opened the wardrobe and began to pick out dresses.

"Here you are!" she shouted triumphantly, holding up a pink gingham frock. "Just your size!"

Actually she’d picked out one of my favourite dresses but there was no way I was going admit that!

"It’s far to low cut at the front. Sorry Fiona, it’s far to low at the front. I couldn’t wear that. Look, I just couldn’t"

Fiona looked at me in some surprise, her eyes focused on my chest as she tried to make out what shape I really was under my baggy jumper. In an effort to change back into myself I had downsizied overnight and now the small pads of cotton in my bra would barely fit an A cup. Fiona looked a little puzzled,

"Oh" she said, "I could have sworn .." Then she suddenly brightened up as she rationalised her discovery. "You naughty thing. You were wearing falsies when I came. Well I suppose you’re right. There’s no use wearing this. Let’s find something with a higher neckline."

And so it went on and on. I managed to find objections for a lot of the dresses but finally, when the bed was piled high, I realised that Fiona just wasn’t going to give in. She stood there with the last two dresses in her hands and shook them in front of my face. Her voice was trembling with frustration.

"Look! You are wearing one of these! Choose!"

I shut my eyes and pointed resignedly. "That one."

"Good, now get dressed."

When she left I sat on the bed dejectedly and fingered the dress she had left for me. It was the narrow waisted royal blue chenille with tiny ruffled pleats on the bodice and elbow length sleeves decorated with dark blue satin ribbons. The skirt had a matching satin trim just above the hem line. Well OK, .. it was a very pretty dress… but the more I thought about wearing it the less I liked the idea. But on the other hand I was in deepest shit anyway, and short of confessing everything, there now didn’t seem to be a way out. So, I made up my mind to go ahead with the playacting. The skirt was rather full but by now I was thinking that after all it would be very dark and if I didn’t wear an underskirt and if I wore long boots and the beret and if I wore my long coat all evening probably no one would notice. Probably…

Frankly the idea began to grow on me. I’d never actually thought of going out dressed up and it might even be fun. After all, Fiona obviously thought I was a girl, and she’d seen me at close quarters, so I obviously could pass it off in a crowd. So I stripped to my underclothes and started to put on the dress. Then I thought - why not go all the way. It would be much better fun if I knew that I was totally acting the part and, as my father had often said, ‘It is better to be hung for a sheep rather than a lamb.’ So I stripped again, locked the door and started to dress properly. A pair of white nylon lacy panties first. Then a waistline bra padded out to a modest A cup with cotton wool stuffed into a pair of nylon stockings. Next came my girdle and finally I attached my nylons to the suspender clips being careful that the seams were straight. Then I pulled the dress over my head and after some struggling with a knitting needle managed to pull up the zip and fasten the little hook and eye behind my neck. However even with the belt pulled tight the skirt seemed to hang awkwardly so I added an extra net waist slip which puffed it out over my hips. That did the trick. My mirror showed a well rounded shape. I was just slipping my feet into a pair of black court shoes when there was a discrete knock on the door and Fiona came in.

"Good, you’re almost ready - I thought you might like to try my new makeup. These colours are all the rage on the London scene and I think the colours will suit you. You just sit down and I’ll do your face" Glory, Did she just. When I looked in the mirror I couldn’t recognise myself. I suddenly had a creamy complextion with long curly eyelashes and blue eyelids and pink lipstick. It gave me a strange buzz just looking at myself. It was, just so… feminine. I even swayed my hips a little as I walked into the hall.

"That’s much more like it." said Fiona with a self-satisfied grin. "Just pick up your handbag Girlfriend, … and let’s go!"

So minutes later, there we were, two young girls, all made up, standing at the tram stop, dressed to kill in our high heels and flouncy skirts. The cold wind swirled round the shelter and lifted the hems of our skirts a few inches. I wrapped my short coat tighter round my chest. There were two boys standing behind us and I heard one of them say we were ‘A right wee pair o’ hairies.’ I thought of asking Fiona about this but the number 47 arrived just at that time. Just getting on the tram was pandemonium. The platform was crowded and I found that just squeezing on wearing high heels and my full skirt with its quite bouffant petticoat was quite difficult. The conductor was shouting ‘Room up ra’ stairs!’ so I followed Fiona up the stairs. As I negotiated the ninety degree turn round the stairs I looked down and could see that the eyes of the boys on the platform were looking right up my skirt. I felt my face flush and my knees went all funny. I quickly found a seat and pulled my skirts as far over my knees as the flouncy petticoats would allow.

The conductor swayed his way up the tram and leaned over Fiona.

"Wh’re ye off tae lassies? Gae’n tae ra dancin’?"

"Naw. We’r gae’n tae ra Alhambra fir tae see a show" said Fiona using an accent I didn’t think she possessed.

"Pity. A’m af tae the Locarno Ballroom at ten m’self. Ye widnae fancy that wid ye hen?"

"Nae. Pity, bit ‘ave got to git haem early. Sorry ‘bout that."

"So, that ‘ill be twa sixpence fares willn’t it?"

"Ta" said Fiona, "Yer’ no a bad lad. But ma mate, Alexandra here, has ra dosh. Fiona, gie the man the fare!"

I tried to find a coin in my pocket then realised that I didn’t have any pockets. So I fumbled in the little purse and handed him a shilling. He weighed the coin in his hand thoughtfully and looked me up and down very carefully. I hadn’t make head or tail of the conversation so far but I thought I’d better say something. "Are you sure it’s only a sixpenny fare?"

"Sure it is. W’ir runnin’ a special, Sweetheart. Fir you an’ ye’re mate it’s only sixpence."

Then he leaned over Fiona and whispered in my ear. "Ye’re no half bad yers’el sweetheart. Don’t suppose y’ could ditch y’ere snooty friend an’ git tae the dancin’ later? Tell ye what - a’ll wait ootside th’ HQ Bar a’bout ten an if ye wan’ a guid night oot a’ll take ye t’ ra Locarno. Th’ name’s Jamie, by the way."

"Sorry, I can’t quite understand."

He turned his head up to the roof of the bus with a very resigned expression on his face. Then he spoke to Fiona again. "Yir mate, she foreign or whit?"

"Naw, jist a Sassanach"

"Aw, that’s a’right A’ expect she cannae help it if she’s English. Bit she’s naw a bad bit o’stuff noneth’less"

He was just about to start again when Fiona stood up. "That’s oor stop. We’ll be off the noo. Nice tae meet ye, Jamie."

Jamie swung on the pole and let us squeeze by. I said "Thank you" and as we got off the bus he smiled and said, "A try tae please darlin’ A really try tae please"

Fiona led the way up to the theatre doors. As we walked I tried to ask her about the conversation on the bus. "Where on earth did you learn to speak the Glaswegian dialect?"

"Oh, Didn’t I tell you. I was brought up here. I went to primary school in Pollockshaws. When I moved south I had to try hard to lose my Glasgow accent."

"So. What did he mean?"

"What did who mean?"

"The conductor"

"Did you fancy him?"

"No. But…."

"He was just chatting you up"

"Oh!"

By that time we were in the theatre and the first part of the show had almost started when we took our seats. It was one of the special comedy spectaculars that the Alhambra put on just before Christmas every year. Rickie Fulton and Jack Milroy in their stage personnas of ‘Frankie and Josie’ were the stars and they were hilariously funny. It didn’t seem like any time at all till the interval and the tears of laughter were still damp on my cheeks as I followed Fiona into the theatre bar. Fiona sat down at a table and motioned me to the next chair. "How about a drink?" she said.

"But, Fiona we’ve no money"

"Never mind, just give me a cigarette."

So I fumbled in my bag again, found my packet of ten Benson & Hedges and gave her one. However I’d forgotten the matches. "I’m really sorry Fiona, I don’t have any matches."

She staightened her back and put the cigarette to her lips. As she did so she whispered "If I needed a match I’d ask for it, you silly girl. What I need is a drink!"

She was right. Within a few seconds a young man appeared from nowhere. He smiled at Fiona and said."Excuse me for asking, but I couldn’t help noticing. Do you require a light?"

"Oh, thanks. Thanks awfully" purred Fiona, leaning forward to light her cigarette from the Ronson lighter he was holding in a very unsteady hand. His hand shook so much than Fiona had to hold his wrist. When he had put his lighter in his jacket pocket he said. "Would you two young ladies mind terribly if my friend and I bought you a drink I mean two drinks.." he stammered, "I mean - one each, actually. I’m Douglas and that’s my friend Ian over there" He gesticulated vaguely in the direction of an adjacent table where a large boy in a university blazer and grey slacks was waving his hand aukwardly.

"Not at all" said Fiona "Please do join us"

They did.

Fiona made the introductions "Douglas, I’m Fiona and the pretty girl is this is my best friend Alexandra and .. ‘ she fluttered her eyelashes as she turned to the other boy, ‘You must be Ian. Be an absolute dear Ian, and put in the drinks."

"What would you like?" said Ian.

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask for a pint of beer but Fiona leant forward and smiled in his face. "I’d just love a Babycham and I think Alexandra would like one too."

So, Ian bought us a round of drinks. Two lovely big foaming pints of export for him and Douglas and two pathetic little perry’s for us. I tried to look pleased and copy Fiona’s poise as she sipped at her drink while Douglas tried to make conversation. All she ever said was, "Oh" or "Oh, really" Meanwhile Ian was having a harder time. He was trying to tell me about himself and his rugby exploits but I really wasn’t listening. All I could focus on was his beer which was disappearing fast. It was down past halfway when the interval bell rang and Fiona gathered up her skirts and said "Sorry boys, we have to take our seats. Please excuse us." By then I didn’t mind, if she could get away with it so could I. I leaned forward and picked up Ian’s glass and drained it. Then I stood up and smoothed my dress. As I strode off I looked behind me and winked "Thanks Ian. That was really lovely."

After the show we had only a few minutes to catch the last number nine tram. But when we got to the doors we found Ian and Douglas waiting. Douglas spoke, "We wondered if you two would mind if we walked you home?" It was directed to Fiona rather than me and was much more a statement than a question. In the meantime Ian had managed to siddle up to me and was trying to encircle my waist with his arm. I was having none of this. I pushed his hand away as quickly as I could. "So sorry. We have to run to catch our tram. Come on Fiona!" I was out the door and walking as swiftly as I could in three inch heels before she could reply. Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of Fiona saying a few words to Ian and then she was walking by my side. We just got to the stop as the last number nine pulled in.

We talked about the show on the way home. Fiona was particularly obsessed with a skit where Jack Milroy had dressed up and pretended to be a Glasgow housewife. She thought it was hillariously funny but frankly I had not been quite so keen on the joke. When we got home she was still in an ebulliant mood and insisted on ‘liberating’ a bottle of Mrs Mac’s Fine Orlando Cream sherry from the cabinet in the lounge. She wanted to make a night of it but I really felt I’d pushed my luck far too far so I decided to go to bed. But before I left my curiosity got the better of me. "What did you say to those boys just before we left?"

"What do you mean?"

"At the door of the theatre - just before we left. You said something to the tall one."

"Oh, Ian. He said he and Douglas are going to a Hutchie’s former-pupil’s rugby club dance tomorrow and they wanted us to go with them."

"So what did you say?"

"I said that it was very short notice we would think about it and they could phone us in the morning. Don’t worry. I gave Ian your phone number and since he couldn’t take his eyes off you I’m sure they’ll phone us frst thing. By the way did you know that Douglas’s Dad has a Jaguar and they have borrowed it for tomorrow night. So we will be able to stay out just as late as we want."

Well the last thing I wanted was that. So when I got to my room I hung up all my clothes in the wardrobe and packed a bag. Then I sat down at the dresser and wrote a short note. ‘Dear Fiona, Sorry I wasn’t able to see you this morning. My Grandmother is terribly ill and I have to go home. I am catching the early train and won’t be back for a week. Love Alex’

I put the letter on the hallstand at 5.30 in the morning and caught the early train south.

I got back late on the following Sunday. I was hoping against hope that Fiona had not talked to her aunt and was determined to say as little as possible to Mrs Mac. However that was not to be. Mrs Mac called me into the kitchen and sat me down at the table. I sat there with a cup of tea in my hands while she got on with her baking. "How did ye git on wi Fiona?"

"Oh, I hardly saw her, I was out studying at the Mitchell Library much of the time she was here."

"That’s no whit a heard. She wis fair taken wi yirsel’ Or so she said. Whit’s more she said that ye both had a great nicht at the theatre."

"That’s very true. I’d forgotten. It was a memorable night."

" So, Fiona had a guid time then?"

"I think so."

"Wi’ her friend Alexandra?"

I gulped "I don’t know. I don’t think I met her friend" I was aware that my voice was quivering and that my knees were turning to jelly.

Mrs Mac sighed heavily and turned back to the stove. "Puir wee Fiona. She willnae wear her glasses an’ she cannae see twa feet without them. Can ye imagin’ it, the puir little buddie thockt ye wir a lassie." She paused and waved her tea spoon in the air before continuing. "Still wi yer long hair an’ that yer no sae far away."

My face had turned a deep shade of pink and I couldn’t look up so I mumbled. " Is that so. I can’t imagine why she would. Thanks for the tea. I’ll be getting along to my room now."

But as I rose to leave Mrs Mac smiled and caught my eye. "That’s all right Alex….ander, you go of tae bed. Bit before ye go perhaps ye’d like tae look at this article in Monday’s Glesgae Evening Citizen. I dinnae expect yir parents get this paper."

And with that she opened the paper that was lying on the table, opened it to the ‘What’s on in the City’ page, and pushed it towards me. The top headline on the page was ‘ALHAMBRA’S NEW SHOW A BIG HIT WITH THE CITY’S YOUNGSTERS’ and underneath the headline was a photo of two boys and two girls standing in the foyer of the theatre. There was no mistaking who they were! Douglas and Fiona were holding hands and Ian had his hand round my waist. I could feel the blood rushing to my face and I must have turned redder than a beetroot. My mind was racing with all kind of excuses. I started to stammer out something about it being a student stunt for Rag Week but then tears started to fill my eyes and my throat felt paralysed. Then I just lost my bottle and ran to my room. Mrs Mac called after me "Maybe ye can return Ian’s phone calls in the morning. You know he’s been phonin’ fir someone called ‘Alex….andra’ every nicht this week!"

God, I was so embarassed that I wanted to die. Copious tears of self pity ran down my cheeks as I ran to my room. I had finally been caught, branded and staked out to die. Mrs Mac would send the clipping my aunts; my aunts would tell my mother; my mother would tell my father, I would be ridiculed as a fairy, a pansy, a poofter and a queer for what was left of my miserable life, and if my father had anything to do with it, for any life thereafter. It would have been better by far if I had strangled Fiona at first sight and faced hanging or a lifetime behind bars. That stupid, stupid girl and her horrible vindictive aunt! I crawled under my bedcovers and cried my eyes out.

I didn’t hear Mrs Mac coming into the room but suddenly she was sitting on the edge of my bed and stroking my hair. "Ma puir wee Pet. Dinnae take it like that" she said "Look, a’ dinnae mind if ye like wearin’ lassies’ claes. I’ve known it fur a lang time an’ it disnae bother me wan bit. A’ dinnae really care that much about the dressin’ up. It’s between oursel’s. Honest, a’ willnae tell ony’wan. Noo, how about a’ pour yi a nice hot bath an’ when yi’r finished we’ll hae a nice supper in front o’ the fire in the sitting room an ye can tell me aw’ abut it?"

By the time I’d had the bath I felt a bit better. Whatever Mrs Mac actually felt maybe she wasn’t really going to blow the whistle on me just yet, and if she did I could always commit suicide. So, it was with a certain resignation and a little more confidence and some bravado that I towelled myself dry, put on my dressing gown and went into the front room.

After tea Mrs Mac insisted that we have ‘a wee drink.’ She opened a bottle of whisky and poured out two very generous tots into a couple of Edinburgh crystal glasses. When we’d finished these she refilled my glass and started to tell me about how she was just writing a letter to my aunts in Ambleside to thank them for their hospitality. Casually she mentioned how proud they were of me and that she always described how I was getting on at college in each of her letters. Perhaps, she said, my aunts would like to know about some of the other activities I got up to? Any calm I had up to that moment evaporated and I started to get more uncomfortable by the minute. Perhaps, she suggested, I might tell her everything and she might be able to put it in context. So, stupid soul that I was, I poured out the whole sorry story. I told her about Wendy and Marjory and all the other misadventures that had led me to the happenings of last Saturday night. Finally, on my knees, with tears rolling down my cheeks, I told her that it had just all been a big mistake, that I’d really, honestly, learned my lesson now and if she promised not to tell anyone I’d never ever dress up again.

She was very understanding. "Of course I understand, ma Pet. I widnae want to hurt ye." Then she paused for a second and added, "But, Ye ken, A canna quite picture ye in a dress. A’d like tae see you dressed up jist like ye were when ye went oot wi’ Fiona. Wi’d ye indulge me an’ show me whit ye looked like? Jist tae pit ma mind at rest, ye ken. Then we can pit it aw behind us."

I’d rather not have done it but, since I reckoned that she had the power of life or death over me at that point, I nodded meekly and went and changed. I even brushed my hair into a passable imitation of the way it had been that night and applied a little mascarra and lipstick When I was ready I walked into the parlour.

Mrs Mac was obviously impressed. She made me stand in the middle of the floor and looked me up and down carefully. "Well, a’widnae beleve it. Nae wunner Fiona couldna tell ye wir’nae a lassie. That only goes tae show that yi can pass fir a rare wee dandy lass if ye want!"

I felt quite ashamed. It just wasn’t the same as before. Fiona had thought I was a girl but Mrs Mac knew that I was a boy just dressing up. I stammered, "I’d like to take these things off now if you don’t mind."

She rejected that suggestion. "No, I know ye really like wearin’ girlie’s claethes. So, jist sit doon an’ have an’ither wee drink an’ we’ll discuss yer future, lassie tae lassie, as it were. If ye get ma drift. Is the whisky awright, or.." and here she winked sarcastically. "Maybe yi wid really prefer a Babysham?"

So I sat nurturing yet another drink, clutching the glass to the bodice of that stupid blue dress while she went on and on about the letter she planned to write to my aunts and how it might be more interesting if instead of enclosing the newspaper clipping she sent a photograph of her own. She even went as far as to get her box Brownie camera out of the bureau - before she realised it was out of film. By this time I was getting close to panic. Tears were running down my cheeks and sweat was pouring off me in rivers. I could feel little trickles of both running down my chest and dampening the padding of my bra. Then she leaned forward and said, "Awe, dinnae fash yersel’. A’m only kiddin’ A dinnae think I’ll write tae Mavis this week." But then she looked me straight in the face. "A’ve made a decision. Let’s have a wee agreement. A’ want ye tae pretend that ye’re ma niece Alex..andra aw the time when yir here in the hoose an’ at the weekends - an’ ye can be Alex ootside. If ye dae that a willnae write tae Mavis an’ nae one will ever ken."

So that was that. I was trapped. Every evening when I got home I became Alexandra. I swapped my vest and Y-fronts for a lacy bra and panties, my socks for a suspender belt and nylon stockings and my shirt and trousers for a blouse and skirt. After brushing my hair and putting on a touch of makeup I’d slip into a pair of low heeled court shoes and help my new ‘auntie’ make the tea. After we’d eaten I did the washing up and then chatted with her for an hour or so before starting my studies. Then at about eleven she’d call me to the kitchen and we would have our evening cocoa together. At the weekends I did the cleaning and the ironing and when my chores were finished ‘auntie’ insisted that ‘We dress up proper fur wir tea’. So she would put on a clean frock and I would have to do the same, put makeup on and carefully brush my hair. Then we had high tea in the parlour. It was all terribly embarrassing at first, but after a few weeks I started to rationalise the arrangement and adapt to my new life. After all, if Mrs Mac was able to take this in her stride it was a perfect arrangement. I could dress up as much as I wanted to and she seemed pleased, in return, to have a dutiful little ‘niece’ at her beck and call. It was all fantasy, of course, but it wasn’t altogether unpleasant. After all, I was indulging my secret pleasures and as long as I behaved properly myself no one other than Mrs Mac (I mean ‘my Auntie Alice’) and I would be any the wiser. In fact ‘Auntie Alice’ could be very good company indeed, especially if she had had a few drinks after dinner. She was a fund of very funny and sometimes quite ribald stories about life in Glasgow in the 1930’s.

Things only got serious in May. Through my college placement office I’d arranged a summer job with an architect’s office in Newcastle but Auntie Alice had very different ideas. She confronted me one evening with the news that she had written to my parents to tell them that I had a summer job in Glasgow. I protested vehemently, "But I don’t have a job here. And anyway, Glasgow is an architectural desert." She really took umbrage at that - she shook her finger at me and shouted, "Mark my words, Glesgie’ is wan o’ the finest architectural cities in Europe! An’ wan day everyone will realise that!" "Onyway," she continued in a softer but more threatening voice, "A’ve finally decided that a’ need tae keep ma nice wee helper Alexandra fur the summer. Guidness gracious, if she wus’nae here tae help me a dinnae ken whit a’ wid dae. Maybe a’ wud be forced tae write tae ma cousins and God knows where that might lead." She giggled at this, then added, "By the way, Alexandra, that’s a real pretty dress yir wearin’ tonight."

So, I stayed in Glasgow for the summer - as ‘Alexandra.’ As Mrs Mac said, ‘Since I didn’t have to attend classes anymore I could now be her ‘sweet wee niece aw’ the time.’ She made sure of this by putting my jeans, my two remaining pairs of trousers and all my shirts and sweaters into the rubbish the next Monday. It was all right for a little while. Life went on much as normal for a few days, but of course I was now housebound. ‘How ironic’, I thought, gazing out the window on the street below. I was tied to the house only by bonds of frilly lace but they were as hard to break as iron chains. Within two weeks I was beginning to go stir crazy. Of course, Mrs Mac was always asking me, in a pointed fashion, if I wanted to go out with her but there was no way as ‘Alexandra’ that I’d ever dare to cross the threshold again. That woman had made me as much a prisoner as if she had handcuffed me in my room!

After two weeks of this I just had to get out of the house. I just didn’t care. So one afternoon when she had gone out, I dressed in a dark blue blouse, a long cotton skirt and a pair of low heeled sandals. I carefully covered my hair with a scarf, buttoned up my coat up to the neck and slipped down the stairs and over the road to the public park. Oh, it was just great to be in the fresh air again, but of course I stuck to the shady paths and, apart the strange feeling I got in my stomach when people passed me, I enjoyed the walk. However on the way back I had to cross the road again and it was now busy with rush hour traffic. I hung about at the park gates for a while but finally there was just no alternative so I just put my head down and darted across the road as if I was late for some appointment. As luck would have it, and I didn’t notice until it was far too late, Mrs Mac was standing on the pavement in front of the tenement talking with an elderly couple. It was impossible to evade her.

"Oh, there you are Alexandra." She said, "I’d like ye tae meet Mr and Mrs Mickle. You must ken Mr Mickle, he has the grocers at the corner of Crow Road." Then she turned to the woman "Isa, this is ma neice, Alexandra "

I nodded at them and stammered, "Nice to meet you. Sorry, I have to get upstairs."

Mrs Mac sighed and then said, "That’s awe’ right. You jes’t pop the kettle on an’ we’ll be up in a minute."

You probably can guess what happened next. I found myself pouring tea and offering cakes and scones to the Mickle’s. Mrs Mickle wanted to know where I had gone to school, and what course I was doing at College, and did I have a boyfriend .. and.. and.. As soon as I could I excused myself and went to my room. I could hear them talking all the way to the door. Mrs Mac was saying, "Naw, a use’d tae have a young lad as a lodger bit he left months ago. Thir’s jest masel’ and ma wee niece Alexandra here the noo. Mind you, poor Alexandra’s been awfully sick ye ken, she hasnae been hersel’ fur weeks. Sure, didn’t ye see she wis wearin’ a scarf an’ a coat in this weather. Still, she’s much better noo an’ a think she’ll be oot an’ aboot in nae time. Maybe we can baith visit ye some day soon?" Did that make me feel confident?

Actually she wasn’t far from the truth about me not feeling well. The fact is I’d been feeling quite queasy for a few months. It was nothing really serious. Occasionally I’d feel dizzy and a bit sick and sometimes my chest and legs felt rather tight. However, when I expressed my concerns to Mrs Mac she reassured me that it was only the time of year and that she too was feeling ‘a wee bit under the weather’. She gave me some of her pills to stop the sick feeling and some ointment to rub on my chest and legs and these helped somewhat.

One evening, later that same week, when we were drying the tea dishes, Mrs Mac said, "Ye know Alexandra, it wis nice tae see ye oot an’ aboot. An’ ye made a rare hit wi Cameron Mickle. He thinks yer a’ rare wee stunner. A think ye’d better dae the shoppin’ at Mickle’s from noo on."

That sets the scene. There was no way I was going out again. I held out for almost another week, but Mrs Mac refused to do any grocery shopping, and finally when we’d had nothing but boiled potatoes and cabbage for four days on the trot, I gave in and ventured as far as the local grocers. On my first few trips I always wore a coat but it was a hot summer and I soon realised that I was more noticable wearing a coat than not wearing one. So I soon found myself going out without it. No one seemed to take any particular notice and as my confidence grew I experimented. I learned that if you are reasonably well turned out you can get away with absolute murder. Dressed in a pretty floral frock, with my hair done up and my makeup on, I could actually walk down Dumbarton Road in broad daylight. Apart from the ocassional wolf-whistles from the boys hanging about on the street corners and some lewd remarks from Mr Mickle’s incredibly spotty, dandruff-laden, little shop assistant, I didn’t have any real problems. Perhaps, I rationalised to myself, people just see what they expect to see. If they see someone in a dress and long hair then they automatically think it’s a girl. Admittedly, I knew I wasn’t exactly the prettiest girl in town, but I had had many more problems in this city when I was a boy with long hair.

Of course I blew it a few times. I’d rather not think of the embarrasment I caused myself going into the ‘Gents’ on Chancellor Street. There I was, standing in front of the urinals with my petticoats pulled up above my waist and my hand touching my panties before I realised that this might be rather inappropriate behaviour. Fortunately there was no one else in the public toilet but an old man whose only comment was ‘Ye might be in the wrang place, hen.’ I retired to a cubicle and waited till he left before I beat a hasty retreat. And then there was that unfortunate incident at a crowded bus stop on the windy corner of Crow Road when a sudden gust of wind threw my petticoats above my waist. Since both my hands were occupied trying to hold down the front of my dress I had no control when the swirling wind blew up the back of my stiff petticoat, and before I knew it the entire ensemble was up over my bum exposing frilly knickers, stocking tops and everything else to the entire bus queue God, it was so very embarrasing. Thank goodness I was wearing a girdle! And then, in mid-September there was that occasion at the bus station on Dumbarton Road when a very drunk middle-aged man tried to to ‘pick me up’. If it hadn’t been for the sudden arrival of the bus I might have broken his nose with my handbag.

Since I had managed, successfully so far, to pass myself off as ‘Alexandra’ I decided to subject myself to a test. I must admit that I was a little more than shaky when I walked into the shop Dunbarton Road and found myself face to face with the very assistant who had served me twice before. When she said, ‘How can I help you?’ I had a flashback to the last time I’d been in the shop. However, this time it was completely different although I think I blushed when I said. "I saw a waistslip I liked in the window. Do you have bras and pantties to match?"

This time there was no hesitation on the part of the assistant. "Of course Miss. That will be the ‘Passionate Peach’ range. Peach is such a popular colour this year. Everyone is wearing it. And, I do believe we still have a complete set of underwear that is probably your size. You would be a twelve, I think, and let me see.. probably a 36A bra?"

"That’s correct. But actually, I have a narrow waist and I’d prefer the panties and suspenders in a size 10, if you have them."

"That isn’t a problem." she said as she wrapped my purchases, "Now let’s see. Can I help you with anything else? We have a really nice line of the new Playtex bra’s and girdles and I think that the cross-your-heart action of their latest bra gives quite extraordinary uplift." Here she dropped her voice, "Actually, I can really guarantee that a new Platex bra will enhance your figure wonderfully and make your boyfriend very happy. Would you like me to give you a fitting?"

I declined. After all, there is a limit. She accompanied me to the door and at the last minute bent forward and murmured a few words in my ear, "I’d like to ask you something very personal. Is that all right?"

I thought ‘Here it is. Exposure at last! You pushed it just too far and you really did it this time!" I don’t know whether I was miserable or happy. It just didn’t matter. What could she do? So I said "What do want to know?"

"Actually" she said, "I’m going to meet my new boyfriend’s parents on Friday and I’m thinking of having my hair done. Yours looks really great. Could you tell me where you got it styled?"

After that my confidence grew, albeit slowly. Funnily enough I didn’t really think about being a boy dressed in girls clothes anymore. Dressing up - which at one time had been a special, erotic thrill – one which always gave me a stiff erection - was now just a fact of life. In fact, I found it hard to think of when I’d last had an erection. Funnily enough, I hadn’t had to shave either - although I’d never had any significant growth of facial hair - a quick passage of a razor on a Friday night was all I had really needed. But now I found that even that wasn’t necessary. Stranger still was the fact that while before I’d insanely oggled every pretty girl I passed in the street, now I’d just nod and mentally criticise her dress sense. By November I knew that I could pass myself off as a girl in most situations and by the time the autumn became the winter I didn’t even think twice about going out. Well, that’s a downright lie. I thought about it a lot. I was always very careful about combing my hair and getting my makeup right. I still didn’t like going into town but I had to visit the Mitchell Library occasionally. The fashion that year was for peasant-style flared skirts and cotton bodices. On a whim, in Marks and Spensers, I bought a stylishly full black velvet skirt, but of course, I had to compliment it with a fashionable blouse. Being only ‘modestly endowed’, as they say, I compromised by buying one a rather high neck. Still, with its puffed sleeves and little rosebuds embroidered on the bodice, it was very fetching. Mrs Mac jokingly called it ‘Ma’ wee Alexandra’s sweet going to the library outfit.’ Still it didn’t matter to me. I could live with that type of criticism. After all, every visit to the library brought me closer to my final exams and my degree. I would very soon make my escape. I could kiss goodbye to Glasgow and resume a normal life, whatever that was.

Then one evening I met Fiona again. I can’t remember the exact date but I think it must have been sometime in late November. Anyway it was about eight in the evening and it was pitch dark. I was taking the tram home from the library and she sat down beside me. As usual, she looked absolutely ravishing. "Hi, Alex!" she said, "Haven’t seen you in a long time."

I think I said hello. Then I looked towards the window. The reflection showed two girls each with long hair and glasses. There was a tightening in my chest and I suddenly felt very uncomfortable. All I could say was "What are you doing back in Glasgow?"

"Oh" she said, "I’m just visiting. Wanted to catch up with a few old school friends. Anyway, How are you and our auntie getting along?"

We passed a few pleasantries around, then she said point blank "Well I am surprised! You are very convincing. You must really like pretending to be a girl."

Well that floored me. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. Eventually I stammered "I didn’t think.. Look, let me explain… How long have you known?"

"Oh. I think it took me about thirty seconds. You weren’t very convincing back then."

"You mean that you knew I was a boy and you didn’t say anything?"

"Of course. I had planned to ignore it initially. Only you continued to wear falsies and a slip so I assumed you really wanted to act the girlie. I thought that that threat of a trip to the theatre would flush you out but obviously I was wrong. I’ve really got to hand it to you Alex. When you decide to do something you really do go all the way." With that she stood up and announced, "This is my stop. Bye Alex."

I tried to grab her hand. "Just wait a minute. You knew all the time! Do you mean that was just a put on? The hairdo and the theatre. What about the Hutchie boys at the Alhambra?"

She disengaged my hand and swung on the pole, "You mean Ian and Douglas? They’re just old school friends. The’re a real scream and they would do anything for a laugh."

"You were at school with them?"

"Yes, we were in the same class all the way through secondary school together. But this is my stop. Must dash! Chou Alex!"

After I got off the bus I walked home very slowly. At first all I could think of was that Fiona, that vindictive bitch, had really screwed me up. If it wasn’t for her …. But wait a minute… She said that Ian and Douglas were old school friends. I hadn’t realised until then that Hutchison’s Grammar was a co-educational school. Or was it? Despite my limited knowledge of Glasgow I had been fairly sure until then that Huchie’s was a boy’s only school. I was still mulling this over in my mind when I got into the house. As I locked the door behind me I could hear the sound of the television in the parlour so I poked my head round the door to say goodnight. Mrs Mac was, as usual, in her seat in front of the fire. She had obviously drifted off to sleep and was slumped in an uncomfortable position with her skirt halfway up her thighs. Poor old thing. I decided that the least I could do was to try to make her a little more comfortable, so I plumped up a pillow and put under her head and then pulled up a puffie and raised her legs onto it. As I did so her skirts rode further up her legs exposing a fat set of pale white thighs clothed in knee length silk knickers. I tried to rearrange her dress but I couldn’t help seeing, nestled in the smooth white silk of her long panties, a faint hint of her pubic hair and the quite unmistakable bulge of her fat, greasy cock.

 

Footnote: I left Glasgow in the late fifties and got a job in town planning in the south of England. I’m now head of urban planning for a region in the southwest of the country. I married a wonderful girl and we have two boys and (now) four grandchildren. ‘Mrs’ Mac died in 1983. ‘Fiona’ (nee Fred) Brewster now owns a chain of hairdressing saloons called ‘New Curls for New Gurls’ in California. Alaister and Ian are joint owners of a bar called ‘The Gay Lancers’ in Birmingham. I don’t dress up now. Well, not very often.

 

© 2001
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