Autumn 1980

by Sue Jarvis

    

PROLOGUE

Autumn 1980.

Me and Paul had been mates. Not best mates, but mates nonetheless, and good mates.

I was 18 and worked in a bank. Paul was 20 and in the army, stationed mostly in Germany but also doing his stints in Northern Ireland. As such, we only met up when Paul was on leave, and trust me, a good time was always had on those rare occasions! The hangovers were not so good, but hey, we were young - we recovered quickly.

But this story is not about Paul, I only mention him as it was he who introduced me to Mitch, his mum. Paul's mum's name was actually Sheila, but she hated the name, and liked to be called Mitch. So Mitch she was (even Paul called her Mitch) and despite her 40 or so years she always looked younger, acted younger, was a great laugh, and a really (really really really) nice person!

PART 1

Like I said, when Paul was on leave we used to go out to the pub together. We didn't drink to excess, but enough to prevent me from riding my motorbike home, and the thought of a 6 mile walk with a few beers inside me never appealed so I often kipped on the couch at Mitch's place.

This became commonplace over the three or four years that I knew Paul. He left the army and moved away to the north where his dad lived. We stopped getting in touch so often, and eventually drifted apart. I did, however, keep in touch with Mitch throughout this time. When Paul was away I used to call in and see Mitch at least once a week, sometimes two or three times. Occasionally we would pop out to the pub, but most times we sat around at Mitch's place drinking coffee and smoking fags. We grew close. She usually referred to me as her 'number-two son', and in many respects she did Mother me, to the extent that I probably got closer to Mitch during that time that I was with my own parents. I don't know why or what is was, why Mitch and me got on so well together, why we enjoyed each other's company so much...

My home life was OK, but that was about it - just OK. My parents were strict, but not overly protective. They were quite happy for me to stay over at a mate's place rather than risk drinking and driving, although in truth I think the real reason was that my dad had to be up early, and I could never sneak in even without a drink without him waking up. And when I woke him up, he got mad, so it got to the stage when I would stay over at Mitch's not because I'd been drinking, but because we had talked late into the night and it wasn't worth the hassle of waking the old man up.

The other problem with home life was the constant negativity. I was never praised, or encouraged, or congratulated, or hugged. The odd bit of praise might have been forthcoming as long as I had done something my parents approved of, but most of the time they disapproved with just about everything I did. Everything was questioned, then firmly put down. It was always "What do you want to do that for" or "why" or "men don't do that" or "stop being so stupid". And my crimes? Silly things like getting my ear pierced, letting my hair grow past my collar, having the audacity to wear a pink shirt in front of the old man. Once (when I was much younger) I used one of my mum's aprons whilst helping with the cooking. Dad turned up and 'caught' me - he was not happy. I never worked out why though, as he was a chef, and wore an apron, silly checked trousers, and a scarf around his neck all day, so what was his problem? Maybe it was because his apron, scarf, etc. were white - not pink and purple and flowery.

Thing was, I was very good at DIY bits. I could plumb, do electrics, tiling, joinery - most things to keep the house maintained, and Dad was always getting me to help with something, although I usually took over as he couldn't do it. Funny, my earring never seemed to bother him when I was plumbing in a new sink, or hanging a new door? Oh well, c'est la vie. Or should that be c'est la guerre?

I began to spend more and more of my free time with Mitch. She knew I was good at DIY, and with Paul away for months at a time her 'number-two son' was useful to have around, and I enjoyed doing work for Mitch - she seemed to appreciate my efforts. I did allsorts - decorated her living room, put in some new kitchen taps, put an electric power-shower in for her, stuff like that. Her flat was nice, especially on the inside, but the outside was a bit tatty. OK, but tatty. It was because of one of these tatty outside bits that it all started.

PART 2

It was a cold, very wet, blustery Saturday in November. I was pottering around at home, trying to avoid my dad as I had bought another earring, more prominent than the original sleeper, and I didn't want to wind him up - far too much hassle. So I sorted out my bedroom, had a shower and came downstairs for a bit of breakfast and a smoke. Mum was in the kitchen.

"Oh" was all she said.

"Oh what?" I asked.

"The earring. What on earth made you buy that? I thought you had no money. I really don't know what your father will make of it... And your hair is too long. You work in a bank remember? I thought you had to look presentable, and that means short, tidy hair."

"Yes, Mum, I mean no Mum, wait, I mean yes Mum.. Oh, whatever!"

Mum just tut-tutted, put on her apron, and started washing the dishes. I poured out some Cornflakes, added milk and sugar, made a cup of coffee and went to sit down and eat. I had been sat down less than a minute when the phone rang. Mum answered it.

"Erik.." she called. "It's for you..."

I didn't ask who it was, Mum probably didn't know anyway, and she seldom asked who was calling if it was for me or my brother. I went to the phone, picking up and lighting a ciggie on the way.

"Hello, Erik here.."

"Hello number-two son. How are you? Are you terribly busy?" It was Mitch, and she sounded like she was having a pretty bad morning.

"Oh, hi Mummy-Mitch" I said. (She hated that, but if you can't wind up your parents, even your surrogate ones, then who can you wind up?)

"Don't call me that!" Mitch laughed down the phone. "Are you really busy cos I could use your help."

"Why?" I asked, "What's up?"

"It's the guttering outside the bathroom window. It's come loose and with all this rain the water is cascading down the wall to the ground floor flat."

"So let it cascade!" I said, laughing. "No-one is going to notice while it's raining, I'll sort it out when the sun comes out. See you in a few months!"

"It's not funny!" I could tell Mitch was now getting more upset. "The rainwater is landing on Shelley's window and splashing back into her flat! It's going to ruin something!"

"Hey," I said. "Calm down. I was only kidding you. Can't you get Shelley to close her window for now and I'll sort it out as soon as I can?"

"That's the other problem, Erik" Mitch responded. "Shelley is away until much later, maybe even til tomorrow. She's obviously forgotten to close the window properly, so I'm worried about that as well. Someone might break in..."

"Yeah, I get the message. Put the kettle on and I'll be over as soon as I can. Oh, has whassisname next door still got the double-extension ladder?"

"I think so," Mitch said, obviously a bit more relaxed now, "His car is outside, so give him a knock when you get here. And don't be long!"

"Yes Mummy-Mitch, I'm on my way."

Mitch just laughed and hung the phone up. We often finished conversations with one of us laughing, not like with my parents. Sure, they laughed at me, but seldom if ever with me.

I skulled the half-cold coffee, stuffed the last Cornflakes into my mouth, grabbed a jacket and crash-helmet, and said a quick "Good-bye" to my real mum.

"Drive carefully," she said, "it's tipping it down out there."

"I will Mum. See you later. Say 'hi' to Dad when he gets up. And tell him what an absolutely fantastic earring I've bought, and how good it looks, and how he is really going to like it..."

Mum just smiled and flicked my receding backside with the now damp tea-towel.

PART 3

As I started up the bike (Kwacker 650 for anyone who cares) the rain slowed to nothing more than a slight drizzle. As such, I didn't bother with waterproofs, just kicked her over, waited a couple of minutes, shut off the choke, and set off. I was at Mitch's flat in under 20 minutes. Within another 10 minutes I had been to see whassisname next door, and was struggling to get the ladder propped up. Once propped, I surveyed the damage from terra-firma. Not too bad, looked like a gutter bracket had come out. That or a join had come loose. Either way, it wouldn't take long, which was just as well as it was starting to rain quite heavily again.

I went up the outside stairs to Mitch's flat, stopping to push closed the offending open window in Shelley's ground floor flat on the way. I rang the bell, waited a few seconds, then rang it again.

"Alright, alright I heard you. No need to wear the bell out, I'm coming."

Mitch opened the door, smiled her huge, lovely smile, gave me a quick hug, and said,

"Oh thanks for coming over so quickly. I just didn't know what to do and with the rain coming down so hard and Shelley's window being open and...."

"Whoa," I said, "slow down. Breathe! I'm here now, and it looks like it's about to chuck it down again so if it's OK with you we'll have coffee when I've finished?"

Mitch just smiled again, and nodded her head.

I could tell she wasn't having a good day. She wasn't dressed, but had obviously showered. She stood at the door in her pink towelling bathrobe that stopped around mid-calf. Her wet hair was wrapped turban-style in a slightly darker pink towel. On her feet were a pair of those white towelling slippers that the better hotels seem to think that everybody wants to wear, and to set it all off she was wearing a red half-apron with long, wide ties that were tied in a near perfectly symmetrical bow just above her bottom. To me, she looked very 'Mumsy', and I must admit she also looked fantastic. So fantastic in fact, that I swear I felt some mild stirrings somewhere between my knees and my stomach. That's the problem with riding motorbikes on cold, wet days - you eventually loose all sense of feeling! I abruptly changed my pattern of thought.

"Christ, Erik!" I thought. "This is your number-two Mum here, and you're her number-two son. So switch off the testosterone generator for a while and get fixing!"

I looked at Mitch standing there, and couldn't resist mentioning her attire.

"Mitch," I said, almost sounding concerned. "When are you going to learn that two opposing shades of pink, set off with white accessories and a red apron do not add up to a colour-co-ordinated look? At least treat yourself to some new towels and a dressing gown that matches, and as for the apron, if you must wear white shoes then can I suggest that maybe a white apron would be more appropriate to the overall fashion statement?"

Mitch looked back at me, smiled, and said,

"If you don't stop being cheeky to your number-two Mum, and get out there right now and fix the gutter, you won't be drinking coffee - you'll be wearing it! Oh, and by the way, I love the new earring, it really suits you. Did you get the other ear pierced as well like you said you might?"

I went a bit red. I had forgotten that I had told Mitch a few weeks back that I was thinking of getting the other ear pierced. She had thought it a great idea, and told me so in no uncertain terms. If anything, she was a tad too much in love with the idea. Anyway, I did get my other ear pierced, but took the earring out when I was at home. Too much potential hassle with the old man.

Mitch sort of tilted her head a bit, and looked at me again, although this time she wasn't smiling. She had a concerned, almost sad look on her face because she knew that I had to be so careful what I wore at home, how I acted, etc. And she could tell that there was possibly more to 'me' than I was letting on. She could probably also tell that I wasn't really that happy.

"Hey," she suddenly said, ending the silence and throwing me the key to the shed. "You'd better get your finger out as it's starting to rain harder now. The tools are in the usual place, try not to get too wet..."

I went back downstairs, opened up the shed and started to sort out some tools. Mitch had a reasonable set of tools, some having been left by her ex-husband, others bought over the months on my recommendation. I grabbed a selection, shoving them in pockets, belt loops, or down my boots as space would allow, and a few black-Japanned screws which I shoved into the front pocket of my jeans. As I put my hand in, it occurred to me that the rumblings I had felt from first seeing Mitch that day had not totally dissipated - despite the weather. To be honest, I didn't really understand why the one-eyed-trouser-snake should have found Mitch so appealing. I saw her and treated her as a surrogate mother. A fun-loving young at heart mother with a wicked sense of humour (and a bit of a filthy mind) but a mother nonetheless. A mother who really seemed to care about me. Wanted me to be happy. Wanted what I wanted...

PART 4

I was shaken from my thoughts by the sudden sound of the rain falling harder now.

"Shit" I thought, "do I carry on or wait until the rain stops? What the heck, I'm already pretty wet and the damn gutter won't fix itself. I know, have a ciggie and see if the rain slows down at all."

I lit up, and stood there in the dry shelter of the shed smoking, and thinking. I swore to myself again, my thoughts were drifting back to Mitch - not a good idea (although still intriguing...)

I put out the cigarette, strode purposefully out into the rain and within a few steps I was perched way up on whassisname's ladder surveying the rainwater gutter from high level. I had been right, a bracket had come out. Probably due to the fact that the fascia-board was rotten. This meant that I couldn't just re-fix the bracket, I would have to make new fixings into sound timber, adjust the joins a bit so it still all lined up properly, and whilst I was at it, clear out the mass of leaves and accumulated muck that were obviously not helping the situation.

It wasn't a particularly difficult job, just a bit awkward being up a ladder in the pouring rain. Add to this the fact that until the gutter was re-fixed, the rainwater was still cascading out, not into Shelley's ground floor window, but all over me! The job was completed within an hour, and the ladder had been returned to whassisname next door. I put the tools away, locked the shed door, and walked (squelched?) back up the stairs to Mitch's front door.

This time though I didn't need to ring the bell. The door opened as I approached and Mitch was standing there, laughing. Not a nasty ridiculing laugh, just an 'honest' laugh as she looked at the poor bedraggled soul dripping rainwater onto her doormat. I feigned exhaustion, with maybe a bit of hypothermia thrown in, frost-bite to at least two fingers, and to cap it all off, my cigarette packet was soaked - the cigarettes left inside just wet and limp shadows of their former selves.

I stood there looking at Mitch. She was dressed now and looking a lot better. She was wearing a plain denim skirt, white jumper, and blue slipper-come-mules on her tan-stockinged feet. (Probably wearing tights, but 'tighted feet' just doesn't sound right!) She wore a little bit of make-up - some eye-liner and mascara, a lovely light cherry-coloured lipstick and maybe a hint of blusher. Mitch also had a light-blue silk head-scarf covering a mass of rollers in her hair. Her hair always looked good, and I knew she set it herself at least three times a week. I had never seen her actually setting it, just saw her either in rollers, or in rollers and scarf, or under the dryer, or the finished result. Whatever, she must have been good at it as the rollers were always tight, evenly aligned, always the perfect diameter for the particular section of hair, and the finished result was always stunning.

I just stood and dripped and tried to look sorry for myself, tried to look hard done-by. I remember thinking, "If I stand here looking any soppier she'll throw be a doggie-biscuit or a bone!"

But my demeanour, however contrived, had the desired effect. Mitch stopped laughing and put her concerned face back on again.

I started. "Hi Mitch, all done. And I've shut Shelley's window as well. Don't suppose I could borrow a towel?"

"Oh Erik," said Mitch, "you poor boy, you're absolutely soaked through. And you look half frozen. A towel won't be any good, get your wet things off while I run you a hot bath."

"What!", I said, "take them off here? Are you mad? Can't I come in first?"

"No, you can't. You're making enough mess already. No-one can see you, but tell you what, you stand there and have a smoke while the bath is running. When it's ready I'll call you, and you can strip off quickly and leg it straight into the bathroom. Simple, huh?"

Her strange logic seemed to make sense, so I reluctantly agreed. "OK" I said. "But first, promise not to laugh, and second, do you have a spare ciggie?"

"Of course I won't laugh," Mitch replied. "You've done me a really great favour today and I am so, so grateful. Right now I'm far more concerned about you catching pneumonia than anything else. And I was only joking about standing out there, so get straight into the bathroom and get those wet things off. I'll fill the bath."

"Thanks Mummy-Mitch" I said, "and I was only joking about your clash of colours earlier. I think you actually looked great." We both blushed a bit this time.

As the bath filled, I stripped off my wet things, well, most of them. I wrapped a towel round my waist then struggled to remove my boxers without exposing myself. Mitch knew what was going on, even though she had her back to me. Without saying anything, she left the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. Through the closed door she called out,

"You're safe now, get in the bath and I'll bring you a coffee."

I was grateful for the privacy, but even so whipped my boxers off at manic speed, and quickly immersed myself in the still-running bathwater, making sure there were plenty of bubbles to prevent any potentially embarrassing exposure. A couple of minutes passed, I was warming up nicely, enjoying the soft fragrance of the bubbles and the feeling of the hot water warming me through. There was a gentle tap on the door followed by a quiet, almost whispered, "Are you decent? Can I come in?"

"Yeah, sure," I answered, "come on in."

Mitch came in carrying a mug of steaming coffee in each hand. She put them down beside the bath then disappeared again without saying anything. She returned almost immediately with a packet of cigarettes, a lighter and an ashtray, which she set down beside the coffees. Mitch then deftly flicked two cigarettes from the pack, lit them one at a time and passed one to me. I went to take it, but then realised my hands were wet. Mitch must have noticed at the same time because she reached over to the towel rail, grabbed the pink towel that had been on her head when I first arrived and handed the towel to me. I quickly dried off my hands, sitting up a bit more as I did so, thanked Mitch and handed her back the towel. She didn't put it back on the rail, but instead folded it neatly, the way only women do, and set it on her lap.

I sat in the bath, Mitch was kneeling on the bathroom floor. We smoked our cigarettes and drank our coffee while I explained what I had done to the guttering, how long the repair should last, what to say in the 'complaint' letter to her landlord, reminded her to speak to Shelley about leaving her window open, just inane banter really while I gradually started to do a reasonable impression of a shrivelled prune. Mitch didn't say much, just nodded her head, or shook her head, or said "Uh-huh" or "Uh-uh" as appropriate.

We fell silent for a minute. Without speaking, Mitch got up, passed me the towel she had been holding in her lap, scooped up all my clothes and left the room. When she was outside she shut the door and called through it,

"Come on, time for lunch, get out of the bath. I'll fetch you a clean robe." With that, I got out of the bath, towelled myself off, wrapped the towel around my waist, and waited for Mitch to return. There was a soft tap on the door. Without waiting for a response Mitch opened the door just enough to pass a robe in.

"It's the only other one I've got" she said, "but it's clean and dry."

The robe was a pale lilac, with a shawl collar, tie belt, and more ribbon-like ties inside. It was only as I went to do it up that I realised it did up the other way to a man's robe, and that it had the extra ties inside. I adjusted the robe, tied the ribbons, then tied the belt. The robe was quite long, and I am quite short, so it almost reached my ankles. For some reason I decided that my towel should not go back on the towel rail, so I took it out with me, folding it as I went. Mitch was in the kitchen preparing a sandwich, and I walked in with the folded towel held close to me.

"Where do you want this?" I asked, motioning with my head at the towel.

"Oh, just dump it in the washing machine for now. I'll wash it in a minute with the rest of your clothes."

"You're washing my clothes?" I asked, somewhat surprised, "can't they just dry out?"

"Well they can," Mitch said, "but they'll feel much fresher in they are clean. It won't take long, you can keep your robe on for now." Mitch smiled, then added with mock authority, "As long as you keep it clean. That's my favourite robe and I don't want it covered in stains!"

"But.." I said, "it's OK washing my jeans and t-shirt, but can't I at least keep, um, my, um..."

"What?" said Mitch, "keep what?"

"It's, um, just that.... Well, I feel a bit naked without me boxers." I know I went red as I said it, and was expecting Mitch to laugh. Instead, she came over to me, hugged me, and said,

"Oh, Erik, you're so sweet."

She hugged me a bit longer. I could feel her pushing the soft towelling of the robe against my groin. She hugged me harder. Now the material was caressing by groin from the front, and also my bottom. I felt my penis start to stiffen, just a bit, but enough that I just knew I was about to embarrass myself. I was desperately trying to 'think' the dreaded one-eyed trouser snake back into limp submission when my thoughts disobeyed me again and before I knew it they had gone back to earlier that day when I had first seen Mitch standing at the door in her pink robe, and a towel wrapped round her head.

Mitch released me from the hug, and quickly walked off towards her bedroom. I managed to keep my back to her so she wouldn't see the by now quite stiff protrusion creating a very unflattering shape in the front of the gown. I couldn't help it - for some reason I grabbed my penis through the robe, holding it in the soft lilac towelling. Not rubbing, just enjoying the feel of the very feminine material on me, thinking about Mitch in her robe, thinking of her now in her rollers, thinking of...

"Come on you," came a voice from behind me. "Put these on." The sudden sound of Mitch's voice scared me half to death. Luckily, it seemed to scare the trouser-snake as well and he started to wilt just as suddenly as he had started to stiffen. Before I knew what was happening, I could feel Mitch down by my ankles, asking me to lift one foot, then the other. As I did so, I felt her pull a pair of... "a pair of what", I thought, "spare boxers, pants, knickers..." Mitch pulled them further up my legs. "Lift your robe up a bit Honey", she said, "just need to pull them up the last bit."

I was mesmerised. Part of me wanted to complain, tell her to stop. Tell her I would either go without or just put my damp boxers back on. "Christ," I thought, "my boxers must be dry by now..."

But another part of me wanted this so much. Loved the feel of the soft cotton panties, loved being 'mothered' as Mitch pulled them up for me, loved the feel of the robe as I pulled it up just enough for Mitch to wiggle the underwear up my thighs and into position. Once more I found myself battling hard to stop my penis from coming out to play again. I almost succeeded.

"There, is that better? Does number-two son not feel naked anymore? They seem to fit fine, or will do once you've calmed down a bit..."

Now, I was no longer mesmerised - I was mortified instead. I needed to collect myself, but I couldn't think straight. I just felt myself getting hotter and hotter and redder and redder. Mitch was still behind me, but had stood back up and was now smoothing the front of my robe back over my groin. She turned me to face her, but I couldn't look her in the eye. Mitch reached out and hugged me again. "Don't worry," she said softly, "I had a husband and a son remember. I watched my son grow up, I know what goes on. It's only a pair of cotton knickers. They are really no different from guy's pants. Just think of it like that. And I'll bet lots of men wear purple towelling bath robes.."

"It's not purple." I stated without taking my eyes off the floor. "It's lilac. And men's pants don't have lace trimming. And men's pants are not pink."

Mitch laughed. "They are when I put Paul's white pants in the wash with my red top!"

I couldn't help it - I laughed too, and then we were just two people enjoying each other's company again. OK, I was wearing pink panties and a lady's lilac robe, but Mitch certainly wasn't bothered by it. It seemed to be my problem, not hers. My mind wandered to what my Mum and especially my Dad would make of it all. Was that guilt creeping up on me?

"Stuff 'em", I said out loud. "They are only clothes". Mitch just smiled.

"C'mon," she said, "let's eat".

PART 5

We ate our sandwiches in silence. Mitch made some more coffee. We had another cigarette.

"OK" I said, stubbing out my ciggie in the nearly full ashtray, "what now?"

"Washing up?" said Mitch, also looking at the nearly full ashtray.

I took the plates, mugs and ashtray over to the sink and started to run some water. Mitch got up and went to the kitchen drawer where she rummaged a while before pulling out an apron. It was purple gingham, with a ruffled pink gingham edging, and long, wide purple gingham ties. She stood behind me, reached around my waist and tied the apron into a neat bow.

"Remember what I said, keep that robe clean." She handed me the rubber gloves.

This time I didn't say a word, or go red. It just all seemed so natural. Mitch was wearing an apron to keep her clothes clean, so why shouldn't I? We both have small hands - small 'Marigolds' are pink. (Medium 'Marigolds' are yellow - I've never met anyone who wore the large size so couldn't tell you what colour they are.)

"Cos you're a man! Real men don't do that!" said a voice inside my head, a voice that sounded remarkably like my parents. "Oh, piss off!" I thought to myself.

I washed the dishes while Mitch dried them and put them away. Then I wiped clean the worktops, emptied the washing up bowl, wiped the sink, re-wiped the worktops with a tea-towel to dry them off, dried the taps (prevents hard-water marks from appearing), then folded up the tea-towel the way I had seen Mitch folding the towel earlier, almost caressing it into a neat, folded bundle. Mitch smiled. "Well done, it makes a change to see a man who actually knows what 'washing up' means. My son, and his father, thought that it just meant rinsing the mugs and leaving them on the drainer. Typical men!"

"Am I not a typical man then?" I asked.

"No" she replied, "you are my number-two son. You are different, but all the better for it."

I wasn't sure what Mitch meant, and didn't want to ask. I felt comfortable, I felt happy, I also felt a bit vulnerable, but I was enjoying that sensation too. Sort of made me feel closer to Mitch. Sort of made me feel guilty as well.

"OK" I said again, "what now?"

"Um, you can help me take these rollers out if you like..." Mitch smiled at me as she spoke. A kind and loving smile. The sort of smile a caring mother gives her child - I couldn't resist that smile. It reminded me of things, long forgotten things, from way, way back. Nice things.

"Sure" I replied, "but I've never done it before. I might mess it up."

"Course you won't, silly" laughed Mitch. "All you've got to do is take out the pins, unroll each curler, put them NEATLY in the box, and I'll sort the rest."

"OK, sounds easy, let's go do it." I went to untie my apron.

"No" said Mitch, quickly, "leave it on. It looks good on you. No, you look good in it. No... Oh whatever, just leave it on. Please?"

I followed Mitch into her bedroom where she sat at a small vanity unit. On the unit was a large plastic box containing more rollers, pins, clips, a couple of hair nets, and every conceivable size and shape of brush and comb.

"I didn't realise they made so many brushes and combs," I said to Mitch as she untied and removed her scarf, which she folded and hung over the edge of the mirror on her vanity unit.

"Right," said Mitch, "start at the front, take all the pins and any clips out first. Go across the top, down the back, and do the sides last."

It actually wasn't as easy as I thought. Due to the fact that I was standing behind Mitch, I had to look in the mirror to see the pins in the rollers at the top and front of her head, then try to coordinate my fingers into working in reverse to pull out the pins. I suppose I could have moved in front of her, but for some reason it felt 'proper' to stand behind her, conversing with her reflection rather than face to face. I took the first couple of pins out slowly, I didn't want to either stab Mitch in the head, or dislodge any of the unpinned rollers.

As I removed the pins, Mitch looked at me in the mirror. She appeared to be thinking. I started carefully unrolling each curler, putting them in the box as I went, and methodically 'helping' each curl to spring back into place. When I got to the nape of her neck, we could no longer see each other's reflections properly. It was then that Mitch started to speak.

"Erik.." She paused, waiting for me to respond.

"Uh-huh" was the extent of my response as I lost myself in my current duties. Duties which I was enthralled by, I was loving them, I was loving working on Mitch's hair, even if it was only removing a few pins and rollers. But I was in another world, an enchanting world, a world that was so removed from the 'cos-you're-a-man-and-men-don't-do-that' one that was my home life. In my life, whether it was by nature or nurture, to know about anything or be interested in anything remotely feminine was akin to screaming from the rooftops 'I'm a sissy. I'm not a real man. I can't be, cos I know what curlers are and I know what they are for!' In my world, if a man knew what women's things were, then he was obviously a closet transvestite, and a pervert to boot, and should be ridiculed at every conceivable opportunity. (Ring any bells with anyone?)

"You OK?" It was as if Mitch was listening to my thoughts. Seeing things the way I was seeing them. She too was suffering my dichotomy of 'I'm doing girlie hair things but I shouldn't be. I'm wearing a lilac towelling robe but shouldn't be. I'm wearing pink lace-trimmed knickers but shouldn't be. My robe is protected by a purple and pink gingham apron but it shouldn't be. I'm enjoying myself but I shouldn't be. I'm happy but I shouldn't be.'

"Yeah, fine. Just thinking." I said. "You were about to say something?"

"Oh, yes, what was it?" Mitch started, moving her head slightly to get a better view of my face. "Your hair is starting to get quite long Erik. Are you growing it?"

I was in two minds whether to respond in truth or do the blokey thing and blag my way out of it. If I had been at home, I would have blagged my way out. Sort of, "Yeah, it's too long, I hate it. Been meaning to get it cut, you know, really short for ages but there's either been no time or no money. *Laugh-laugh* Can't wait to get it cut. Saw a neat haircut in the barbers the other day, real military cut. Loved it, gonna get mine done like that. A proper man's cut."

But I didn't say that, or anything like it. To my surprise (or was it?) I took a deep breath, looked in Mitch's reflection's eyes in the mirror, and spoke.

"Yes. I was growing it, am growing it. I can't really decide what to do with it, so thought at least if it's longer I would have more styling choices. I was thinking about getting it permed...."

Mitch just sat and listened intently.

"...but no, I'm not now."

"Why not now?" asked Mitch. She was genuinely interested, which persuaded me to go on.

"I made the mistake of mentioning it to my Mum a couple of weeks back. Just in passing I said I was thinking about a perm. Big mistake, she went bananas. She said to me 'men don't have perms. I don't care what footballers do, you're not a footballer and they are not proper men' and 'perms on men look stupid' and 'how much is that going to cost? I thought you had no money...' and 'what on earth is your father going to say?' and 'why don't you just go the barbers up the road and get a nice neat man's haircut. He doesn't charge much...' Anyway, she went on and on and on at me, so whilst I didn't get my hair cut, I did give up the perm idea."

Mitch looked confused. "Why?" she asked, "what's wrong with a perm?"

I laughed. "Well, my mum is right. It probably will look stupid. Dad will definitely do his pieces. Uncles and aunts will all piss themselves laughing. I will end up spending too much money and look like a total twat just to be either moaned at, ridiculed, or both."

I was angry now, and Mitch could sense it. I put the last roller in the box and left Mitch alone in her bedroom. I didn't quite storm out, but it wasn't far off it. Luckily, my cigarettes had dried out, so I flicked one from the pack, lit it and took a huge drag. Thinking about my parents reaction had not only made me angry, it had made me sad, and like most men, I covered up the layers of sadness with more layers of anger. Anger is a masculine response. Sadness is a feminine response. Must be, cos that's what my parents taught me. I willed my senses back to the here and now.

"Come on Eric" I thought, "you were happy a few minutes ago. Don't let them (my parents) take that away."

I calmed down a bit, the layers of anger gradually peeling away as I smoked. Mitch came into the room just as the final anger layer had been lifted to reveal a layer of sadness. A small tear formed in the corner of my eye. I brushed it away quickly - real men don't cry.

PART 6

Mitch came over to me, and for the third time that day she hugged me. Three hugs in one day, more than I can remember getting at home in the last ten years. I hugged her tight, fighting back the tears that I could still feel welling up, almost uncontrollably. As she held me she rubbed my back, all the way from my shoulders to the bow on my apron ties. Beyond the bow to my backside. The backside still clad in pink, lace-trimmed panties. As she rubbed me, the feel of the material of my robe and underwear once again worked its magic and I felt the beginnings of an erection. I started to pull away, but Mitch just held me tighter, knowing that I was starting to stiffen uncontrollably, but letting it happen all the same. As I became fully erect, she held me just that little bit tighter, that little bit longer, before finally letting go so I could quickly turn away and 'adjust my set' so to speak.

Keeping my back to her, I walked away and sat on the sofa. At least by sitting down it was easier to hide certain parts on my anatomy.

Mitch came over and sat beside me. She had combed out her set now - she looked wonderful. The finished hairdo gave her some sort of fresh appeal, I don't know what it was - she just looked.... gorgeous.

Mitch looked across at me, firstly looking into my eyes, then a quick glance down at my lap, she smiled a wry smile then looked back into my eyes, deeper this time.

"You OK" she said for the second time that afternoon.

"Yeah," I sighed, "fine. You?"

"Well, I would be if my number-two son was a bit happier. C'mon, cheer up. For what it's worth I think a perm is a great idea and will suit you to a 't'. You shouldn't listen to other people all the time. Go with your own needs now and again. Do what you want to do. Be who you want to be. Be what you want to be."

This last statement went seemingly unnoticed by me, at least at a conscious level, as I felt the anger welling up again. Anger, and resentment, and guilt. I looked at Mitch, and shook my head.

"Thanks Mitch," I said, "but my parents are right this time. It was a stupid idea, it will look stupid. Sorry, I should never have said anything. Are my clothes dry, I really should be going home and leaving you in peace."

"What for?" Mitch retorted, with a level of anger in her voice that I had not experienced before. "Go home so you can wallow in your misery? Go home to wallow in more guilt and resentment and anger? Go home to prove your parents right? What are you going to say when you get home? Something like 'hi Mum, had an awful time, got very wet, fixed the gutter, almost froze to death' just so you can hear your mum tell you how wonderfully manly you are? Leave me in peace for what? Paul isn't here and I am divorced, remember? Believe me I have my fair share of peace in this flat, that's why I love it when you come here. You're usually good company and a laugh to be with because you're you, not what your parents want you to be! Well, you may be my number-two son, and I want nothing more than for you to be happy, but if you're determined to turn your life into some self-fulfilling prophecy dominated by doom and gloom and your father's ideas of being a man, then go do it. Take off MY robe, change your pants if you must, but don't do it just because you are either unable to feel good or won't let yourself feel good."

"But..." I managed to interject before Mitch started again.

"And another thing. Don't try and kid yourself you're not happy here. I hugged you, I felt you, I felt what was stirring in you. For fuck's sake Erik, I know what a fucking erection feels like and looks like and I...."

Mitch stopped mid-sentence and looked away. I said nothing. Didn't know what to say.

"I'm sorry Erik, I didn't mean to have a go. I'm sorry. It's just that, it's just well, you start to get happy, you start to look and feel a bit more at ease with yourself, then you get all uptight on me and tell me you've got to go home like it's my fault. All I was trying to say was, that in my opinion, and you can take it or leave it, I think that permed hair will look really good on you. That's all."

I sighed deeply. "Look, Mitch, Mummy-Mitch, it's not your fault, it's mine. I just get all worked up when I think too much. It's that old thing of guilt feeding upon resentment feeding upon anger feeding upon guilt. I know I do it, or let it happen, or however it is the thing works, but I can't help it. It's like a vicious circle that I can't get out of. Don't know how to get out of it"

"Or won't let yourself?" said Mitch, finally looking at me again, "and don't call me Mummy-Mitch!"

Mitch went back into the kitchen and found a half-full bottle of red wine on the shelf. She picked two glasses from the cupboard, then looked at me with one eye-brow raised as if asking "you want wine?"

I nodded gently. The afternoon had gone decidedly pear-shaped, and it was my fault. I felt angry again, but angry at myself this time. My super-self-indulgent-self-hatred was indeed becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy - I was making Mitch mad just because I was mad at myself. I needed to ease the situation, I didn't want to go home, I wished my own clothes would take another week or two to dry, I wanted to stay longer, I wanted to 'be me'. But I had screwed things up, the atmosphere was just too tense, I needed to think of a way of lifting that fog of misery that I had caused, needed to allow the air back in to blow it away, but how?

As often happens in these situations, the opportunity presented itself, completely out of the blue.

Mitch was trying to pull the cork from the bottle, but it didn't want to come out. Maybe she had put it back too hard when she last put it back, maybe it was damp and she couldn't grip it properly, maybe whatever. All I could see was Mitch getting more and more frustrated with the cork, and looking funnier and funnier as she tried to pull it free. I suppose she could have used a corkscrew, but as it had already been corkscrewed once, albeit from the other end, there was always the chance that it would break. Mitch glanced across at me and could see I was trying to stifle a smile at her antics. She was obviously trying to still look pissed off at me, but it wasn't working. Another minute of Mitch struggling and I started to laugh. Then Mitch started to laugh, which made her efforts with the misbehaving cork even more futile.

"Hey," I said, "do you need a man to help you?" The sarcasm in my voice was not disguised. Mitch, however, was not one to be outdone.

"Can you see one anywhere then?" she asked, almost innocently. "Cos I can't... Or do you mean the 'man' in the lilac robe? The 'man' wearing my knickers? Surely not the 'man' in the delightfully girlie apron? The 'man' who takes ten minutes to take out one curler?"

Maybe I should have been upset or angry by this comment, but hey, I had deserved it, and at least Mitch was laughing again. We were both laughing. I jumped up from the sofa and went to the kitchen. Without saying another word, Mitch handed me the bottle. I then used my apron to wipe off and dry the cork, put the half-inch or so of cork firmly between my teeth and pulled. For a second I thought that my teeth would come out, but the cork suddenly popped and with it my head snapped back, the bottle flipped forward, and the best part of half a glass of Médoc flew out of the bottle. We both watched as almost in slow motion, most of the spilled wine landed on the kitchen floor, but with a good drop sharing itself between my apron and Mitch's apron on the way down.

"Now" said Mitch, "you know why we women, being the sensible gender, wear aprons to protect our clothes. Clean the floor please."

"Why me?"

"Because, number-two son, he of the manlier-than-manly blokey brigade, you spilt it."

I took a cloth from beside the sink, ran it under hot water, and duly wiped up the wine. Mitch poured what was left into the two glasses, grabbed her cigarettes, and we both went back to the sofa. It seemed as if our earlier argument, heated discussion, call it what you want, had been forgotten.

PART 7

We had no sooner sat down and lit up (again) when Mitch looked at me. I wasn't sure, but I think there was a mischievous look on her face. Without taking some conscious decision, I adjusted how I was sitting to get my legs just a bit tighter together, trapping the thing with a mind of its own just in case.

"I've had an idea" Mitch said.

"Go on" I replied, somewhat apprehensive for some reason as to what was coming next.

"Well," she continued, "you are thinking about a perm, but you are also thinking that it will look silly, and you are also thinking that if it looks silly you will have wasted a lot of money..."

"Any my parents.." I started to say before Mitch quickly interjected raising her voice slightly but enough for me to take notice.

"This is not about your parents!" Mitch stated in a rather staccato fashion. "This is about you." She spoke more gently this time.

"I think it will look great, but you don't believe me, and you don't want to waste your money. Correct?"

"Well, yeah, guess so. And?" I was right to have felt apprehensive when the conversation started.

"And," she went on, "I've had a great idea."

"Yeah," I said, "I know, you told me that already."

Mitch moved a bit closer to me on the sofa, put one hand on my knee ("oh-oh, it's the feel of that delicious towelling again!") and began to explain her idea. I was all ears, and desperately trying for the umpteenth that day to control my testosterone-driven urges.

"Well, it's really quite simple. Why don't we try out a perm? You know, give you some curls so you can see what it's going to look like. If you like it, keep it for now and go for a perm once you've saved your pennies. If you don't like it, it washes out straightaway, so no damage done, and no cause for concern. Simple or simple?"

"But how?" I asked, shrugging.

"Oh, Erik. You can be so sweet but so stupid sometimes. How on earth do you think my hair gets its curls? What did I have in my hair all morning? What did you spend ages meticulously taking out for me after lunch? Hmmm?"

"But Mitch, they were, you know, rollers, curlers, whatever their proper name is. I thought they used rods or something for perms? Especially on fellas. Rollers are for doing women's hair..."

"Oh Erik," Mitch repeated, smiling broadly. "Promise me whether you get a perm or not you at least ask the hairdresser to colour your hair blonde, because right now you are acting like a man's interpretation of an archetypal blonde. Yes, you are partly correct - rods are used for perming. But, we are not 'perming' your hair, we are just making it curly. Hence 'curlers'. Rollers, curlers, the name doesn't make a difference, are for curling hair. That's all. They do not recognize gender. And looking at you right now that's probably just as well because you'd only confuse the poor things."

I wasn't sure what to say, and even less sure how to react. So I said the blokey thing.

"Erm, push that past me again, will you?"

Mitch rolled her eyes to the heavens and back, grabbed my shoulders, shook them, looked me straight in the eyes and said,

"Listen, thicko, we are going to wash your, set it in quite small rollers, dry it, take out the rollers, comb out the curls, and see how it turns out. If you like, you keep. If you no like, we wash out. Now, thicko, just what part of that don't you understand?"

I looked at the floor. After a while I spoke.

"Mitch, I do understand what you mean, and it's very sweet of you to offer. But I couldn't do it."

"Why not? And trust me, if you even think about saying 'but my dad...' I'll... Oh, just tell me why"

My eyes remained glued to the floor, and my cheeks started to feel a little warmer. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. It was as if having my eyes closed was like 'thinking' things, not 'saying' things. If I kept my eyes closed I could not see the reaction on Mitch's face. Could not see her laughing at me. As I slowly exhaled I began again.

"It feels wrong to me. It's a girlie thing. The way I was dragged up, if you do girlie things then you must want to be a girl. You're just a sissy, a perv. Not just that, you saw or felt, or whatever how I physically reacted earlier, you know, when you hugged me. The feel of the soft towelling against my skin, the feel of lace around my thighs and waist, the apron strings being pulled tightly, corseting me.... Men's pants and bathrobes are made of grade 2 sandpaper. They feel hard. They feel hard to make men feel hard, feel like men. If they felt soft.."

"Like my clothes?" Mitch interrupted.

"Yeah, if they feel soft like your clothes, then I feel soft, I feel like a girl! It's too embarrassing, it's not right... It's perverted!"

"Says who? Oh, wait... Let me guess. Your dad perhaps? Or maybe both your mum and dad?"

"ME!" I replied, unnecessarily loudly, but then I could feel myself welling up again and anger always seemed the best way to negate that reaction.

Mitch put her arm around my shoulder. She said nothing for a minute, just held me. Finally she said,

"But Erik, you only think it's wrong because that is how you've been programmed as you've grown up. Your parents were probably brought up the same way, and their parents. Sometimes, if we don't understand things, it is easier to label them as 'wrong'. Think about it for a minute. You've been bottling up everything about the real you for years. When you were a child, if you did something, anything, and either got told off for it or laughed at, you know, in a cruel way, then you assumed that whatever you did must have been wrong and therefore you didn't do it again. Just because you didn't do it again, doesn't mean that you didn't want to do it. How many times have you thought about it? How many times have you beaten yourself up just for thinking about it, let alone actually doing it?"

I sniffed a bit. "What do you mean Mitch? What do you mean by 'it'?"

"Being you. Being the real you. Being the you that you want to be, no, need to be. Not being the you that everybody else expects you to be." she explained softly.

"But who wants to be a pervert? I certainly don't. Why can't I just be a normal bloke?" I asked.

"Erik, Sweetheart, you are not a pervert."

"Course I am Mitch," I snapped back. "Let's face it, doing girlie things appeals to me. The feel of girlie clothes is, well, nice. No more than that, it feels 'right'. That's not normal behaviour, and that's only the half of it. Wearing the stuff and doing the things is bad enough, but getting a hard-on as well is just too much. That really is perverted!"

"OK, Einstein," Mitch responded, "do something for me; define 'normal'."

I looked back at Mitch. "What?" is all I could say.

"I said, define 'normal' Mr Clever-Clogs."

"Well, I suppose normal is generally accepted behaviour within society. It's what everybody classes as OK behaviour. It's what everybody does, how everybody acts, well, most people anyway."

"Yes," said Mitch, "that's one way of defining it, but it doesn't mean that 'normal' can't change, can't develop. OK, here's an example. Thousands of years ago we, I mean the human race, lived in trees or caves, and went to work by swinging from tree to tree. At the time that was considered normal, but it doesn't mean that it would still be classed as normal now, does it?"

"Yeah," I agreed, "but that is thousands of years of evolution. It didn't all change overnight."

"Hmmm," said Mitch thoughtfully. "OK, here's another example. When you were a baby, it was considered normal behaviour to wear your food in your hair whilst sitting in your own poo; is that still normal behaviour now?"

I laughed, Mitch had such a way with words sometimes. My laughing seemed to lift both our spirits up a few notches.

"Yeah, you're right I suppose," I said, "but why do I still get this idea in my head that I'm not normal? Worse than that, I'm some sort of pervert?"

"Because," said Mitch sternly, "you want that idea in your head. Like I said, you've been pre-programmed as it were to react that way. Even if other people, me for example, see you as perfectly normal, you still can't accept it. No, you won't accept it. There's a difference. You are normal. You are not perverted. Tell me something, there you are dressed in a lilac bath-robe, my lilac bath-robe, a woman's lilac bath-robe. You're wearing pink lace-trimmed undies, and a girlie apron.."

"Yeah, OK," I said, "I get the message. I'm weird, perverted, not normal!" I interrupted.

"Oh, Erik, there you go again, using words like weird and pervert. You are not weird, you are not a pervert, you are just, well, different. But that makes you a better person, believe me. Men seem to spend their whole lives believing that acting the Mr Alpha Male part, being hard and all that is what all women really want. That's rubbish! OK, so for some women that ideal may press their buttons, but for most women men like that are actually unattractive. It's not what we want. But will you stupid men ever listen? I doubt it somehow. It is such a breath of fresh air when someone like you comes along."

"I'm still not sure I understand," I replied, "I can't see what could possibly be appealing about a 'man' who acts, thinks, reacts, whatever, like I do..."

Mitch released her arm from around her shoulder and put it in my lap. "Look at it this way," she said, "you have such a lot going for you."

" I have?" I was genuinely surprised by this remark, and Mitch could tell.

"Yes," she continued, "of course you have. For example, you are fantastic at doing bits around the house. Mending things, making things, that sort of thing. There are a loads of men who wouldn't know one end of a screwdriver from the other. There are also loads of men who might know what a screwdriver is for, but will think of every possible excuse for not using it, or leaving a job until later. Not many men would have fixed the gutter in the rain like you did."

"Yeah," I said, but surely that's me doing my 'man' thing. Being Mr Arfa Mole, did you call him?"

"Alpha Male, dimwit. But you are also great inside the house, well at least you are in this place. When you dried yourself after your bath did you hang up the towel on the floor? No, you folded it neatly and asked me where I wanted it put. When we washed up after lunch did you just give the cups a cursory rinse and leave them on the drainer? No, you washed up properly, then wiped the work surfaces, the taps and things, and again you folded away the cloths. When you were taking out my rollers did you just dump them on the bed or the dressing table? No, you put them away carefully and neatly. When I asked you not to get my robe dirty, did you respond with 'oh-it's-only-a-robe-you-can-always-wash-it'? No, you respected my wishes, did the proper thing and put on an apron."

"Girlie stuff, all of it." I said, bluntly. "Not the way a real man behaves."

"Bollocks!" Mitch hardly ever swore, but that was now, what; the third time today? "That is not 'girlie' behaviour," she continued, "and it definitely isn't blokey behaviour, but it is 'proper' behaviour. It's what any normal civilised person should do, and what they should be brought up to do. But unfortunately, in today's narrow-minded society it doesn't happen. If every generation is going to bring up their children, train their children... no - programme their children into these same pigeon-holed roles then nothing will ever change. The human race will stop developing. Too many men won't clean up because it's 'women's work' and too many women don't expect their men to clean up for the same reasons. They want their men to be 'manly' and everything, good AND bad that goes with it. It's all so Draconian, so wrong. We might as well go back to living in caves."

"That's all very well, and believe me, I agree entirely," I said, "but that doesn't address the issue of clothes, and, well, you know, the other thing..." I could feel myself going red again but this time Mitch took no notice.

"Clothes are another typical pigeon-hole thing, and so is appearance," said Mitch. "Why is it that I, being the female of the species can wear pretty much what I want, when I want? I can wear whatever colour that suits me. I can wear jeans one day, and a skirt the next. I can have straight hair today, and curly hair tomorrow. Chrissakes, I can even wear men's clothes and it's regarded as 'sexy'. Why the f- f- f- flip do I have to wear men's clothes to look or feel 'sexy'. Why is it that if I have a mole or a spot I can cover it up, you know, a bit of make-up, but if a bloke has an ugly spot or dark rings round his eyes or pale, skinny lips I am expected to have to put up with it because it 'wouldn't be manly' to use make-up to cover it up, wouldn't be manly to make himself look more acceptable! Why do men have to think they are so flippin' right and self-important and the oracles of all knowledge all the time. More like a flippin' orifice in my opinion!"

Mitch was getting annoyed, and I wasn't sure why. I decided not to prompt her on this any further, but was still keen for her to explain to me what was going on in my little world. I decided to agree with her on the whole clothes and appearance issue. Besides, I liked what I was hearing, it all seemed to gel with my own thoughts that raise their ugly heads now and again but are soon beaten into absolute and unconditional submission. Even at twenty-two years old, I was learning that constant mental berating soon becomes as painful as a physical beating. It gets on your tits after a while, and I was tired of it. For now, at least, I was happy to think it without the immediate beating, although this would still probably come later. It usually did.

"Hey, Mitch, c'mon, calm down. Believe it or not, I actually agree with you. You are spot on, it's like you've taken all my thoughts, my fears, my constant niggles and done what I could never do - SAY THEM! Please don't get wound up, cos I need to ask you something else, something that bothers me even more. Something that really winds me up and embarrasses me but if I don't spurt it out now I may never get the guts again.... Please Mitch?"

Mitch calmed down instantly. She looked at me again. "Go on" she said.

"I'm not sure now," I answered, meekly. "It's just a bit, you know, embarrassing... I'm not sure how you took it; I mean will take it. I really don't want to upset you."

"C'mon Erik, Sweetheart," Mitch said in her kindest voice, "I am Mummy-Mitch remember? Your number-two mum. You can say anything to me, you know I don't mind, and I won't get upset, or mad at you, and before you rudely interrupt me again, no, I won't laugh at you. I promise."

I started. "Well, you know, earlier, when you were putting my knickers, sorry, I mean your knickers on, on me, I meant on me, and later when you hugged me, and there was bit of a reaction?"

Mitch said nothing, just continued to look at me with a look of intense concentration, and something more, a look of... caring. That was it, caring. Don't remember getting too many looks like that lately, but I've got to admit, it was so nice.

"Oh please Mitch," I pleaded, "don't make this any harder than... I mean don't make this any more difficult for me than it already is. Say something? Please?"

"OK, said Mitch, "so you had an erection. And?"

"And," I said, " I think it was the clothes, the nature of how I was dressed, or the feel of the material, or something, I'm not sure, that caused it..."

"And?" she said.

"And, it feels wrong. No, it felt great if you know what I mean, but it also felt wrong. I'm starting to think I'm a pervert again. I don't understand what's going on, it kinda worries me."

Mitch thought for a while. Probably not long, but to me it seemed like ages. I just sat there waiting for a torrent of abuse, or cruel laughter, or Mitch shouting at me 'YOU PERVERT - GET OUT AND STAY OUT' or something equally as horrible.

Mitch took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. I thought she was about to speak, but instead she lit up a cigarette for herself, and another for me. I thanked her, and looked at her, using my eyes to implore her to say something, anything, but hopefully nothing too bad. Mitch took a long drag, exhaled through her nose, and watched the smoke disappear up to the ceiling before replying.

"Erik, we all get turned on by things, different things. You are young, you are still developing. I am guessing, but judging by the lack of body hair on your legs and chest, you are a pretty late developer. Some boys start early in their teens, some even before that. Some boys start quite late. Now please don't worry, there's nothing wrong with that, it just means that your testosterone levels are sky-high at the moment. I bet you get an erection every other minute don't you?"

I knew I was by now very red in the face, but I answered anyway. "Sure, I get loads of erections, but they don't feel like the ones earlier, they just feel like a stiffie, the sort you get, sorry, blokes get, when looking at a porno mag, but these ones felt different. Felt sexual, no, wrong word, they felt sensual. They felt like they were supposed to be there. It's like, I don't know... seeing a woman naked might cause a bit of an erection, but that is about it. But see the same woman wearing just a towel around her chest, or a dressing gown, and the erection is suddenly something different. Most erections are just a nuisance, but me dressed like this, or a girl who has just got out of the bath and is wrapped in towels, well, that causes an erection that I want. Badly want. Does that make sense?"

"Yes," said Mitch, "it does. Makes perfect sense." She took her eyes away from mine momentarily to put out her cigarette, then she continued in the same hushed and reassuring tones.

"Like I said, we are all turned on by different things. All you have done is found out what really turns you on, what you want to be turned on by. It's quite a relief that you are turned on by such simple, harmless things. Could be a lot worse you know, what you like and like to do hurts nobody, harms nobody. It's better in probably many if not all respects to be turned on by a partly clothed or covered woman than a naked one. At least is saves the woman the embarrassment of having to be naked if she's not comfortable with it. Let's be honest here Erik, and you must start to be honest with yourself. From what you've said, and the way you act sometimes, the little things you do, subconsciously some of the time, I would say you've got a feminine streak a foot wide running down your back. A feminine streak that offers you some sexual gratification, but more importantly, whether you realise it or not or want it to or not it offers you some psychological and emotional gratification. It lets you be you. It wants you to be you. Don't fight it, go with it, enjoy it!"

"Do you think I'm gay?" I asked, almost dreading what she might come back with.

"What?" said Mitch, "Well I don't think you are. But you tell me Sweetheart. Are you gay? Do you fancy men or do you fancy women? Only you know that."

I sighed, maybe with relief, maybe just to gain a bit of thinking space, albeit a short space.

"I fancy women, girls, ladies, birds, not the feathered variety though, I'm not that weird. I have never fancied men, and cannot think of any reason why a man, or a woman for that matter would want to fancy a man. Men are ugly and hairy and brutal. They are a funny shape with things hanging out in awkward places. They are ungainly and hard, rough, they're just... well, men I suppose. Women, on the other hand, are attractive and soft and kind and graceful and caring. They always look good, always want to look good, look pretty in jeans, look pretty in a skirt or dress, look pretty when they are wearing just a towel, look cute with their hair in rollers, ..."

I realised what I was saying, and where this was going, so stopped abruptly. I very much doubt it would be possible for my cheeks to burn any redder than they did just then. I fumbled a cigarette out of the packet, and tried to light the wrong end. Mitch smiled, took the cigarette off me and put it back in the packet. She took my hands in hers.

"Erik," she said, "I couldn't agree with you more, you've got that spot on. Your summing up of the attractions of men versus women is so right, must be that girlie streak in you. Couldn't have put it better myself. The average woman is, or can be, very attractive, the average man can't. Like you say, they are rough and brutal and angry - I hate them! Present company excepted of course."

"But Mitch," I said, "you are, were married. You must have liked at least one man? And there's Paul, he's your son, you must like him?"

Mitch stiffened. "Yes," she said, recovering the cigarette she had taken from me and lighting it herself. I took another from the pack while I waited for her to continue.

"I was married, and yes, I must have liked him. But not anymore. He was OK at first, but turned out that he liked to express his 'manly' side a bit too much." A small tear formed in the corner of Mitch's eye and rolled slowly down her cheek. She ignored it and spoke again.

"So many times he would come home from the pub, very late, very drunk, and very aggressive. He would hit me, slap me, kick me. For no reason I could think of. He would say things like 'I'm the man around here and you're the woman, you've got to be kept in your place' and 'You've got to learn to give me what I want when I want.' He would try and have sex with me, usually from behind. I used to like that when I was younger, much younger, but he was so rough, he hurt me, he never asked first he just expected me to bend over so he could have his way with me, didn't even try to consider my feelings or needs. He basically just raped me. And when he was done he didn't hug me or kiss me, he would just hit me. I hated him."

Mitch wiped away the tear, and seemed to get a grip on herself again. "Anyway," she continued, "one thing led to another, and in the end he left me for his secretary and moved up north. I didn't argue, I didn't fight the divorce, I just wanted him out of the way and me to get my life back. Of course, it wasn't all as simple as I've made out, but I would rather not talk about him, talk about 'it', the miserable bullying bastard."

I didn't want to push Mitch somewhere she didn't want to go. There were so many unanswered questions, what was Paul's place, if any, in the family? Where was Paul living now? Why did Paul join the army? (Didn't Paul once mention whilst drunk but then fervently deny when sober a little sister he once had?) Why didn't Mitch fight for a better divorce settlement? Why hadn't she reported the abuse to the police? All these questions would have to wait. Maybe Mitch would answer them in her own good time, maybe not. It wasn't my place to ask, so instead I did what I thought was the natural thing to do, I took hold of Mitch and hugged her tightly, very tightly. I rubbed her back and caressed her hair. I whispered gently to her, tried to reassure her that everything was OK. And then I kissed her, a gentle peck on the cheek, kissing away another tear that was in danger of smudging her mascara. I wanted to hold her forever, stay in that embrace for eternity, be so close to someone, both physically and emotionally. But all good things must come to an end. 'He', the wicked one-eyed trouser snake was coming up to say 'hello' again.

"No, not now!" I thought as I released Mitch and discretely as I could went to adjust myself under my apron and robe. Strange, I had totally forgotten I was still wearing the apron, but when I looked down, the apron around my waist seemed as natural as jeans, or my suit trousers, or my summer shorts. The apron didn't feel 'out of place', didn't feel 'wrong'. I must have been looking for too long, either that or discretion was obviously not my strong point, because Mitch's gaze soon followed mine, and I don't think I had adjusted myself quickly enough or adequately enough. Our eyes met again, I said nothing but pulled the top of my bath-robe (I was starting to treat it as 'mine' by now) a bit tighter across my chest and held it in place over my left nipple, again enjoying the feel of the material on my bare skin.

"Aw bless," said Mitch, smiling again and she watched me protect my dignity, "that's so sweet. So girlie. You really are a very special and very lovely person. When you allow yourself to be!"

PART 8

We both sat in silence for a good while, lost in our own thoughts. I was feeling quite emotionally drained. So much had been said in so short a time, so many truths had come out, so much about me was now in the open which I had always sworn to myself would never become common knowledge. Not to my own parents, not to Mitch, and certainly not to the girl that I would someday (presumably) meet and eventually marry. I guess there are (were) some things which I always considered best unsaid. But now they had been said, and unfortunately it's kinda difficult to un-say things. I dreaded the fact that this private, unthinkable part of me was now not private, the thinking had been 'thunk!' At the same time I also felt a certain amount of relief that it was out, so to speak. Maybe my dark side wasn't as dark as I had always painted it in my mind, in my actions, in my reactions. Maybe I wasn't such a bad person after all. Not weird, not a pervert, not someone to be beaten up or ridiculed at every opportunity because of the way I feel, the way I behave, the way I was currently presenting, the way I was (am). But deep down I was still questioning who I was, what I was, and why I was. As I sat there, in the lilac robe, the apron, and the pink undies I was feeling, I don't know, at peace I suppose. It felt good, and it felt right, if something can feel right. I felt happy, contented. I felt like I was being the real 'me' for once, and I was enjoying every aspect of it.

However, I also knew deep down, that the present euphoria, the present feeling of being free, of being me and enjoying me, would not last forever. I knew it would soon be replaced by anger, guilt and resentment. I would berate myself, beat myself up in my head, hate myself with a vengeance that no-one, let alone oneself deserves, maybe even hurt myself physically. I knew it would happen, I just didn't know when and I didn't know how severe it would be. On the basis that everything that goes around comes around, it would be very severe. That thought was depressing, so I tried to ignore it, at least for the time being. Like Mitch had said, I can be a special person, not a perv or a weirdo or someone to keep away from your kids, I could be OK as me and with me if I would only allow myself to be.

I was pulled out of my trance-like thoughts by Mitch as she stood up, using one hand on my knee and one hand on the arm of the sofa to ease herself up. She was looking a bit drained as well, but was trying not to show it.

"C'mon," she said, almost cheerily, "things to do."

"What things?" I asked, getting up and standing beside her anyway.

"Your hair, silly. I thought we were going to do your hair? You know, like we agreed?"

I had to smile at this. 'Like we agreed' she had said. I don't remember agreeing to anything, but thought "What the hell, in for a penny and all that." So I followed Mitch, somewhat nervously, into the bathroom.

"Take off your, I mean my, robe," she said, "and wait here. I'll be right back."

"Can't I keep it on?" I asked, almost whining.

"No, the collar is too thick, it will get in the way. Wait here while I fetch you something to protect your oh-so-precious dignity." As she left she added in a sly whisper, "It's not as if I haven't seen your knickers before!"

I removed the apron, folded it neatly and placed it on the stool in the corner by the bath. Then I took off the lilac robe and hung it on the back of the door, next to the dusky pink robe that Mitch had been wearing first thing. I felt very vulnerable right then, standing in someone else's bathroom, wearing someone else's undies (even worse - they were women's undies. Not boring old plain women's undies, but baby pink with white lace trimming!) I did not have long to consider my situation further before Mitch returned. In her arms she was carrying a couple of folded lemon-yellow towels, one of which was obviously bigger than the other. She put both towels on the stool, smiling as she looked at the neatly folded apron before obscuring it from view, then picked up the larger of the two towels, took hold of the corners and opened it out to arm's length. The yellow towel was huge, I knew that with a towel that size around my waist it would drag on the floor, probably trip me up as well. Mitch came over to me with the towel still stretched out and said,

"C'mon Sweetheart, put your arms up."

I did as she asked, and she wrapped the towel around me and tucked in a corner to keep it in place. But she hadn't wrapped it around my waist - she had wrapped it tight around my chest. It felt like it was going to fall down, so I held it in place with one hand, with the other hand subconsciously holding the lower part of the towel in place lest it came apart and I exposed any more flesh than was absolutely necessary. The towel was deliciously soft; not the thickest or heaviest towel I'd ever seen, but certainly the softest. It smelt nice too, obviously fresh from the clean laundry pile, a smell I hadn't come across before, sort of homely, comfortable. Despite my still somewhat vulnerable state the smell and feel of the towel encompassing me made me feel less vulnerable, made me feel protected, comfortable and cosy. That was a nice feeling, too.

Mitch smiled again. "Kneel down, facing the bath."

"Yes Mummy-Mitch," I said.

"Erik - please don't call me that anymore. There are things we've spoken about today, things we've said and done, things that go beyond our number-two-mother-number-two-son relationship. Things that somehow don't seem appropriate now, or at least not if I call you number-two son and you call me Mummy-Mitch. You are even more special to me now, as a person, as a great friend, than you were as number-two son. I feel I know you more, I know I know you more, I know... Oh, you know what I mean. Please, just call me Mitch?"

"Of course, sorry, didn't mean any harm. But I'd love to just call you Mitch. You've helped me so much today, you're still helping me now. I've told you things that I always promised I would never tell my mother, so I guess I shouldn't treat you as a mother now that you know, you know, all the other bits..."

I was going bright red again, time to button it, so I promptly knelt down facing the bath, still holding my towel tight to my chest. Mitch picked up the smaller towel, opened it wide and laid it gently across my shoulders. She passed the two corners around my neck, instructing me to keep hold. I used one hand to hold the larger towel around my body, the other to hold on to the smaller towel, and waited for Mitch to finish running water through the shower attachment, constantly checking the temperature and making slight adjustments to the taps until it was right.

"How's that" she asked as the spray of warm water hit the top of my head and began to drip its way around my face.

"Perfect!" I responded, enjoying the feel of the warm water, and the feel of Mitch's hand moving my hair around to get every bit of it wet. She then rubbed in a sweet-smelling shampoo, massaging it deep into my scalp, hairline and the nape of my neck. Now I realise how the collar on the lilac bath-robe would indeed have been a slight hindrance. As she washed and massaged, I could swear that Mitch's foot just brushed against my prone bottom every now and again, not hard, but enough, almost a gentle rub, like playing footsie with someone. After washing my hair for a good five minutes, Mitch started to rinse. I kept my eyes tight shut, something from my dim and distant past, when I was very young and my mum used to wash my hair over the kitchen sink, told me that shampoo and eyes don't get on very well together. Mitch finished rinsing, applied some conditioner, and combed it through. After a minute or so this too was rinsed out, Mitch squeezed some of the excess water out of my hair, then reached around me again, lifted the corners of the small towel and draped it over my head, twisting it into a turban which she flipped over the back of my head before telling me I could stand up.

I stood up and faced Mitch. She was looking at me a bit quizzically, with her head tilted slightly to one side, but said nothing, just smiled. Then she took a corner of the towel that was around my chest and dried off my face. I thanked her, and tried to tuck the towel back around my chest, but I had never done that before (except in my dreams) and didn't know how to do it.

"Oh come here," Mitch suddenly said, "you're all fingers and thumbs. Here, I'll do it, turn around."

I turned around so I now had my back to Mitch. She reached round my chest and deftly tucked the offending corner into place, pulling the towel a little tighter around me as she did so. Once she had tucked it in, she stayed in that position, holding me from behind with her hands on my chest, her left hand on my right nipple, right on left, and her face nuzzled into the folds of towel hanging behind my head.

"Oh, Sweetheart," she giggled, "you're so cute and soft and cosy I could eat you all up!" I laughed. Mitch moved her head and kissed me on my exposed neck. Just a friendly peck, but that was obviously enough, the reaction from my groin was almost instantaneous. My hands were around my middle, and I surreptitiously slid one hand down to my groin. It was like a reflex action, not planned. Mitch said nothing, she just released her hand from one side of my chest, grabbed my wrist and put my hand back to my waist. I was glad of the visual cover the huge yellow towel afforded me, but if only it was about three times heavier, maybe it would have held the trouser-snake in check a bit more. But the towel wasn't three times heavier, and if Mitch changed positions my erection, in all its glory, would now be very apparent, and very embarrassing - for both of us.

I just stood there, not sure what to do, which way to turn. Should I say anything? Maybe tell Mitch I was busting for a pee so she'd leave the room? Maybe feign sudden agonising stomach cramps so I could curl up on the floor and hopefully Mitch wouldn't notice anything? Maybe ask Mitch to close her eyes, and while they were closed give my damn dick a thorough thwack? (That would hurt like hell but it's a sure fire way to kill off an unwanted erection!)

"Close your eyes." It was Mitch's voice in my ear, not my voice in my head.

""Uh?" was all I could manage in response (typical male response under all kinds of onerous circumstances I know, but I guess that's men for you.)

"I said, close your eyes." Mitch repeated, in a slightly softer tone than before. My heart was racing as I closed my eyes, wondering what the hell was going on, what to expect. I was a little bit excited I suppose, but at the same time more than a bit worried. Standing in someone else's bathroom, wearing nothing but pink knickers, a towel around your chest and another towel wrapped girlie-style around your head can have that effect, well, it did on me anyway. Excitement? Maybe. Worry? Most definitely.

I stood still as Mitch moved her hands off my chest, only to take my hands and place them where hers had been. I crossed my arms across my chest, holding the soft towel close to me, and sighed softly. Mitch then moved her hands back down my body, past my chest, past my stomach, and stopped just above my now aching member. She hesitated a while, as if waiting for me to do something or say something. I didn't, I couldn't. Mitch pulled the towel a bit tighter around my middle, forcing it against me. Forcing the soft material of my (her) knickers against me. I had visions of coming right there and then, but for some reason, I knew this wasn't the end, I had to hold on a bit longer, there was more in store. And I was right.

Mitch knelt down behind me, moved her hands lower, grabbed the bottom edge of my towel and lifted it up a few inches. Then she slid both hands up inside the towel, all the way up past Willy, and hooked her thumbs into the lace trimming around the waist of my knickers. Yes, I was starting to treat them as mine by now, I had had them on for so long. Mitch pulled my knickers down just a few inches, just enough to pop Willy out of his soft cotton prison and allow him some freedom, albeit only as far as the outer prison walls which were towelling. This material had an even greater effect as I stood, my knickers around the tops of my thighs, the soft yellow towel caressing my chest, and my willy fit to burst.

Mitch stood up again, said nothing, just adjusted the towel on my head a fraction. My eyes were still closed, but they quickly snapped open as I felt Mitch reach down between my buttocks with one hand and push the towel hard up between my legs. With the other hand, she reached round to my front and held my now very aching willy through the towel. She squeezed it very gently, then started slowly rubbing. As she fondled both my arse and my willy with the towel, she began to speak.

"You OK Sweetheart?"

"Mmmm" I sighed.

"Good, cos I know willy has been a bit of a nuisance today, getting in the way, so I thought I'd calm him down a bit to make you more comfortable. Don't want him distracting us while I do your hair, do we?"

"Noooo" I sighed.

"And you do want your hair rolled and curled don't you?" I just nodded this time.

"And you are going to look so cute, so girlie. You really want that don't you?" I nodded again, slower this time.

"And you don't mind if we take things a little further do you?" I shook my head, not quite knowing what Mitch meant, but I wasn't about to disagree and risk halting the proceedings.

"I want you to look so cute, so pretty, so feminine, so girlie. You'd like that wouldn't you?"

I didn't have to say anything this time, my muscles tightening and my whole body starting to stiffen probably said it all. Mitch speeded up the rubbing, and continued to fondle me from behind.

"You're going to be my special girlie," Mitch whispered as she again upped the tempo. "My Erika."

That was it. I came, boy did I come. In huge gushing spasms. I thought I might pass out, or at the very least fall over, but Mitch supported me from behind as she continued rubbing until I was exhausted. My whole body felt limp, and it took me a while to regain sufficient strength just to stand up straight again. Still I did not turn round. Without once removing her hand from my now very limp willy Mitch moved around to the front of me, and holding willy in one hand she kissed me on the forehead, her other hand resting on my shoulder. I opened my eyes and looked directly into hers, not sure what to say. "Thanks" was all I could think of.

"Did you enjoy that?" asked Mitch, very matter-of-factly. "It certainly looked like you did.... Erika" Her mischievous smile returned as she wiped my willy dry with a cleaner bit of the towel, then pulled the towel off me, pulling it up from the front so most of it was pulled high and tight up between my legs. I breathed deeply as she did so, but then realised I was now in that vulnerable state again, probably more vulnerable than before as I stood there in Mitch's bathroom, naked apart from a towel on my head, and pink lace-trimmed knickers half-way between my groin and my knees.

Mitch reached down again and pulled my knickers back for me. She looked at my groin, frowned, then pulled the knickers back down a few inches.

"Bend your legs a bit, Erika," she said, "knees slightly outwards, like you've been riding a horse all day."

"Erika?" I said, knowing full well what I thought the answer was going to be, "who's Erika?"

"You my sweet," Mitch replied, "or at least you will be soon, although looking at you now and seeing how you've been dressed and how you've behaved since you finished working outside I don't think we've got too far to go." That mischievous smile again.

I wasn't totally sure where she was going with this, but complied anyway. She then took my limp (but getting stronger by the minute) member and pushed it up between my legs before pulling my knickers back up and telling me to stand up straight again. I did, and it seemed her trick had worked, for now at least. The front of my knickers was almost flat, with little or no hint of anything remotely manly.

"There!" she said, smiling, almost proudly. "Now how long do you think you can keep him under control down there?"

It was my turn to smile. "Not long." I said. "But I'll do my best."

"Good," said Mitch. "Now come along with me. Let's get you covered up."

PART 9

Mitch took my hand and led me out of the bathroom, across the hall and into her bedroom, where my eyes were immediately drawn to the box full of combs, brushes, rollers and nets on the vanity unit. I couldn't help but grin to myself. I also couldn't help noticing that Old-One-Eye had enjoyed his kip, and was thinking about waking up. Luckily, with him squeezed so tight between my legs he wouldn't be a problem. For now. Mitch stood me beside the vanity and took a few steps back. With one finger thoughtfully stroking her cheek she looked me up and down for half a minute or so.

"No. No good. Can't decide right now. Let's have another look at you later." Was all she said.

"Decide on what?" I asked.

"Your look." She replied. "Let's just get you comfortable again for now."

With that she disappeared back out into the hall. I heard the airing cupboard door open, heard Mitch rummaging around, and then she was back. She was carrying a pink towel that appeared to be somewhat smaller than the big yellow towel from earlier, a pink lacy bra, and a small cardboard box, about the size of a kiddie's shoe box. On seeing the bra, I thought about objecting, but not for long!

"C'mere, put your arms through here." she said, offering up the bra to my outstretched arms. I put my arms through the straps, and let Mitch pull the bra around me and do it up at the back. I looked down at my chest, and was pleased to notice that the bra matched my knickers. "Planned?" I thought. "Or coincidence?" The sight of the empty bra cups was, however, a bit disappointing. Didn't look right somehow. Mitch may or may not have seen the look of disappointment on my face, but she smiled her mischievous grin and said,

"Not quite ready yet, face me."

I turned to face Mitch and saw that the cardboard box was now open on the bed, and she was carefully taking out a pair of small, but perfectly formed silicone breasts. My mouth probably fell open.

"Where did you get those from?" I asked. "More to the point, are they what I think they are?"

"Don't ask." Mitch replied. "And 'yes' to your second question.

Mitch carefully placed a breast-form in each cup, adjusting both the breast-forms and the flimsy material of the bra until my boobs looked just right and Mitch was happy.

"There." She smiled. "Perfect."

I looked down at my chest again, and had to agree. It actually looked like I had breasts. Not huge ungainly breasts, just neat little pert ones. It was love at first sight. Mitch then threw the towel over to me, and I caught it in both hands, not being able to resist holding it tight to my chest as I caught it. I opened it up to its full size. I had been right, it was smaller than the huge yellow towel, probably the same size as the towel that was still on my head. I went to wrap it around my waist, as I assumed that being the size it was, the towel would not reach further than mid-calf at most.

"No, no, no." said Mitch, coming over to me again, "Not there, up here." As she said it Mitch took the towel from around my waist where I was just tucking in the end and lifted it up and wrapped it around my boobs. She pulled it tight and tucked the end in my bra (yeah, that was mine now as well) between my breasts. Being wrapped so high up my torso, and with the added obstacle of my boobs to halt its progress, the towel only reached to my thighs, a few inches below my knickers. Once again I felt vulnerable. I was sure that if I bent over my undies would be on full display, so I made a mental note to try to maintain some decorum of modesty by holding and adjusting the bottom of the towel as required. Mitch noticed me holding the back of the towel tight to me, whilst trying to look over my shoulder to make sure I wasn't flashing my underwear. She laughed.

"Oh, Erika, that is such a girlie thing to do."

I felt myself reddening again for the umpteenth time that day.

"But you look really cute" she added. "I just know you're gonna look gorgeous. C'mon, grab the box of rollers, we'll do this in the living room. The light is better."

I picked up the box and followed Mitch back across the hall into the living room. As we passed the still open airing cupboard Mitch stopped, rummaged around again and pulled out a small towel, the same shade of pink as the one I had around me." She gave it to me saying, "Here, we'll need this as well."

Once in the lounge, Mitch pulled up a dining chair and placed it in the centre of the room. While she was doing this, I decided to retrieve my ciggies. After looking around for them, I eventually spotted the gold and white pack on the window ledge, so walked over to pick it up. The window in the lounge overlooked the street and the flats opposite. I stood in front of the window, flicked a cigarette from the pack and lit it. As I did so, I happened to glance out of the window and saw the neighbours from across the road standing in their front garden looking directly up at me. I was mortified, and stepped quickly away from the window and out of sight. Had I stayed, I would have seen that all the neighbours saw, or thought they saw, was a girl wrapped in a towel about to get her hair done. The chances of them seeing a bloke looking like a girl were a bit far-fetched, but the very idea was enough to spook me.

"What's up?" asked Mitch as I stepped, no ran away from the window. "Did the neighbours see your knickers? You really must learn to be a bit more modest Erika, don't want you getting a reputation as a bit of a slapper now, do we?"

I smiled sheepishly, and sat down on the chair, tucking my towel as far under my bottom as it would reach, and pulling the front tight over my thighs to minimise the amount of visible flesh. Mitch stood behind me, and removed the towel from my head and put it in the kitchen by the washing machine with the other yellow towel.

"Oh." I grumbled, "I was starting to like that."

"I know," Mitch said, "but it's damp, and it's going to be difficult to get the rollers in your hair with a towel on your head. Tell you what, we'll wrap the pink towel around your shoulders for now, then once you're rolled we'll see if we can't put it to some other use? Looks like there's going to be a lot of towels to wash later, and guess what, Sweetheart? You're on washing and ironing duties." She grinned 'that' grin again.

Mitch passed me the box of rollers, and asked me to hold it for her, and pass up rollers and pins as she requested them. She had already taken out a comb with a long pointed handle, and was combing my hair. As she combed my wet hair, I felt a trickle of water run down the top of my back.

"Yeuck!" I exclaimed, "That's cold."

"Oops, sorry, forgot the other towel" Mitch replied.

The other towel was on my lap beneath the box of hair bits, and I was loathe to give it up. I liked having it there, sort of a comfort cushion.

"What other towel?" I asked, trying to make out I had no idea what she meant and at the same time trying to hide the other towel a bit further under the roller box.

"Just give it here right now" said Mitch with mock sternness. "You can have it back later. As long as you promise to be a good girl."

"I promise." I said, handing the towel over my shoulder. Mitch took it and wrapped it around my shoulders, fastening it at the front with what looked like a pair of pink plastic claws with a springy bit in the middle.

Mitch continued to comb my hair, then took a section at the front, combed it straight up and said, "Roller."

"What?" I responded.

"Roller. Pass me a roller, and a pin. Please."

"What colour ?" I asked, looking into the box where there were pink and blue and yellow and green curlers, even some grey ones.

Mitch looked over my shoulder at the box, picked out a blue one, put it back, picked up a yellow one instead.

"OK, give me yellow ones for now. If I want a different colour I will tell you. Oh, and when you've handed me the roller, make sure you have a pin ready for me. You got that?"

I turned around to look at Mitch. She was standing, I was sitting, so all I got was a close-up view of her apron. I looked up to her face, she was still smiling.

"I'm not a total idiot, Mitch." I said, "I'm sure I can manage."

Mitch put her head close to my ear, and quietly said,

"You are a man, sort of, you are therefore a total idiot. But I'm sure we can change that."

"Change what?" I asked.

"Shut up Erik, Erika, yellow one please."

And so for the next forty minutes or so, Mitch continued to section, comb, roll and pin my hair. After the first few rollers, I took a deep breath, and asked,

"Mitch..." Another deep breath. "Earlier, when we were talking on the couch, and I asked if you thought I was gay..."

"Umm," she replied, "carry on."

"Well, you said a lot of things, how you hate men and all that, but you sort of left it all unfinished. I can understand if you don't want to talk, tell me to shut up if you want, but I just wondered if I could help?"

It was Mitch's turn to take a deep breath. She stopped what she was doing round the back of my head, came round to my front and perched herself on my knee, one arm around my shoulder.

"OK," she said. "You've told me things today that you probably, maybe, whatever, wanted to keep quiet, so I suppose I owe it to you to tell you my bit."

Mitch adjusted herself a bit, allowed one hand to fall dangerously close to my crotch, took another deep breath, and spoke.

"I told you my ex was a bastard, how sex to him consisted of beating me then raping me. If he wanted something different, he would rape me first then beat me. He wasn't nice, however hard I tried. He knew I didn't mind something, how shall we put it? A bit different in the bedroom now and again, but the only time he was ever interested in sex was when he was drunk, and that seemed to be most nights of the week before we broke up. And when he was drunk he was an evil vicious bastard."

Mitch was controlling her emotions very well, I couldn't quite make out how she was doing.

"And Paul?" I asked.

"I think Paul was a bit like his dad in many respects. Always trying to be 'over manly', always trying to prove himself, always going on about 'men don't do this' and 'men don't do that', that's probably why he joined the army. Prove himself as a man."

"Is that so wrong?" I asked. "Wanting to be a man, a 'man's-man'?"

"It is, or it can be when it gets in the way of everything else. When one's sole purpose in life seems to be to get one over on every other man. To be better, to be able to drink harder, to screw harder, to treat the women harder. Why do men have to be like that?"

Mitch's resolve appeared to be cracking a bit as her eyes watered.

"It's just the way we are, I guess." I said. "Present company excepted!" I added. "Just as with you women, you get 'feminine', 'very feminine', and 'sickeningly feminine', so with blokes you get 'men', 'real men', and 'total Herberts'."

"But..." Mitch paused before continuing. "Women can be blokey sometimes, show their masculine sides, why are men, present company excepted, so afraid to show or so against showing their feminine sides?"

"Easy." I replied. "it's because women don't want us to. Women like their men to be 'men'. If they were wanted their men to be feminine, wouldn't they just get a girlfriend instead of a boyfriend?"

Mitch blushed. Big time.

"Oops" I said. "Was I out of order? Do I detect a raw nerve? "

Mitch sighed, then smiled. She stood up, flicking my once again erect member through my towel as she stood.

"Naughty boy." Mitch said as she stepped behind me. "Back already? You must really be loving this..." and continued to section, comb and roll my hair from behind me.

"Is that it?" I asked. "Look, Mitch, hey, I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to imply.."

"OK," she said. "You might as well know the rest."

It was as if, as long as Mitch wasn't in front of me, looking at me, as long as she wasn't able to see any reaction on my face or in my eyes, she had the confidence to go on. I knew exactly how she felt.

Mitch took a deep breath, and spoke again, interspersing her dialogue with the odd 'yellow' or 'pink' or 'another pin, that one's no good'. I sat quietly, intently listening to her, wishing the Old-One-Eye would piss off for a while.

"Well," another deep breath. "Ever since I could remember I liked my 'men' to be just a little bit in touch with their feminine side. Not too girlie, not back then, but I definitely didn't like the idea of Mr Hard Macho Man. Before I met the bastard, I had a couple of relationships with other girls, and sex, they were sexual relationships. I enjoyed them at the time, felt guilty a lot of the time, but no matter how or when me and a girlfriend made love, what 'aids' we used, it just never seemed right. Something was missing..."

"A willy?" I offered.

"Yes," said Mitch, a willy. So I grew out of those types of relationship, or at least thought I did, and then met and married the bastard. At first it was great, he didn't drink too much, was a bit full of his own self-importance and obsessed with his 'manliness', but it was OK. We got on alright. Must have done I s'pose, cos within a year of meeting him I was pregnant with Paul. The bastard married me, and we set up home, if you could call the flea-pit a home, and things were just about OK. Paul would have been three or four when I got pregnant again, and nine months later a daughter arrived. We called her Cheryl, and she was absolutely gorgeous. With a little girl about the place I could dress her up, do her hair, make her pretty, do all the girlie things while Paul and the bastard did the manly bits."

Mitch started to cry, I came out with the most stupid question ever.

"Are you alright?"

Mitch didn't answer at first, but I'm sure that last curler had been deliberately rolled far too tight, and being stabbed by a pin was no accident. Mitch sniffed a couple of times, wiped her eyes on her apron, and continued.

"Cheryl was everything to me. My hopes, my dreams, my aspirations. As the bastard reared Paul to be harder and more masculine than ever, I was determined to raise Cheryl to be as feminine as I could. I think the bastard resented Cheryl a bit, think he wanted another son, generally wanted little to do with her so I was pretty much left to my own devices as far as nurturing Cheryl was concerned. Pink roller, please."

Mitch sniffed again. I wasn't sure whether I wanted her to continue or not. Whether this was hurting her too much, and (I hated myself for this) selfishly thinking that she might decide she had had enough of company and I should get dressed and leave. But Mitch wiped her eyes again, and carried on.

"Anyway, Cheryl was three. Actually she was three years, eleven months, one week, two days, and nine hours, not that I was counting!"

We both managed a small laugh, although I suspect Mitch's laugh was somewhat more forced than mine. She continued.

"It was coming up to her fourth birthday, I wanted to organise a party for her, but the bastard wasn't interested. Kept telling me that we couldn't afford it, waste of money, all the usual crap. I made the mistake of telling him that he could always afford booze, and nights out with his mates at the dogs, or whatever. That is when I found out he had a foul temper, and wasn't afraid to use his fists on me. Another pink one, please. The bastard started to hit me. Kept telling me 'it was none of my effin business what he did with his money'. Told me 'I give you plenty of housekeeping money as it is, I'm not spending more money on an effin birthday party'. Then I must have really made him mad, as I asked him whether he would feel the same if it was a party for Paul. Apparently, that was different. If Paul wanted a party he could have one, but he wasn't going to pay for a party for Cheryl, didn't want 'the house full of stupid little girls in their stupid little dresses doing stupid girl things!' I yelled at him, he hit me, I yelled again, he hit me again."

"Look, Mitch.." I interrupted. "You don't need to tell me anymore. I get the picture. But what about Cheryl? What happened?"

"I was just coming to that." Mitch sniffed. "Another pink roller please, no, make it a yellow one. The bastard went to hit me one more time, missed, and hit Cheryl instead. She had come in to try to rescue me I suppose. She was crying and screaming and telling the bastard to stop, and I guess she just happened to get in the way. Anyway, he caught her a right wallop to the side of her head. She screamed and screamed, I screamed, the bastard screamed at both of us. Paul sat in the corner, afraid of what was going on, but more afraid of his dad, so he said nothing and did nothing. Anyway, to cut a long story short, we thought that was the end of it. Cheryl calmed down eventually, the bastard stopped hitting me and went off to the pub, Paul went to his room. The next few days were relatively quiet, the bastard stayed out until he knew we would all be in bed. Sometimes he would give me verbal abuse when he got home. Sometimes he would just try to have his way with me whether I wanted to or not."

Mitch sniffed some more, fetched a tissue from the kitchen to blow her nose, and waited a good minute or so to compose herself before continuing.

"it was a few days later when Cheryl collapsed at play-school. Just flaked out, seemed to be in a coma. The play-school phoned me, told me what had happened, told me an ambulance was on its way. But it was too late. My darling Cheryl was dead by the time the ambulance arrived. Seemed the blow to her head had caused some sort of brain haemorrhage, delayed reaction, I don't know. The hospital did give me all the details but I forget now. They told me that she could have had a weak spot since birth, maybe a clot could have developed at any time, with or without a head injury, even a minor bump. But I knew. I knew the bastard had killed her. And deep down he knew, but I couldn't prove it. Sorry darling, I can't tell you anymore right now..."

With that, the floods of tears came and Mitch ran off to the bathroom. I could hear her sobbing, felt desperately sorry for her, but didn't know what to say, or what to do. I waited. I sat and waited, feeling the rollers on my head, feeling the few loose tendrils around my neck that hadn't yet been rolled, my breasts beneath the soft touch of the towel, feeling my bra straps, feeling my knickers pulled hard to my crotch, feeling more of the soft towelling around my thighs and groin, feeling.... horny again, and I hated myself just then for my appalling timing, not to mention how bad mannered it probably was.

"ERIK" I said to myself. "Fucking pack it in!"

Mitch returned a few minutes later, seemingly transformed. She looked, well... peaceful I suppose.

"Any more wine in that bottle?" she asked. Her hand was clenched, as if she was holding something small. The bottle from lunch was empty. Mitch went into the kitchen and fetched another bottle, fresh glasses, and a corkscrew.

"Here, strongman," she said, handing me the bottle and the corkscrew. "And try not to spill any this time."

I opened the bottle, very successfully (even though I do say so myself) and poured out two glasses, one of which I handed to Mitch with a "You OK?" expression on my face. Mitch took the glass, popped two tablets into her mouth that she had been clasping in her fist, and washed them down with most of the glass of wine.

"Wow!" I said.

"BURP! Oops, pardon me!" Mitch replied.

I was very pleased to see her mischievous grin had returned. She had also re-applied her mascara, and touched up her lippy.

"Right.." she said, refilling her wine glass and taking her place behind me again. "Enough about me for now. Maybe one day I'll tell you some more, but all you need to know right now is that men, or that most men, are not my favourite subject. More to the point, I need to finish your hair. We've got things to do....."

Willy must have been listening, as he was suddenly alert again, straining against the layers of soft material. I pulled the layers tighter to me, restraining the wayward organ and enjoying the feeling in the process. Mitch must have noticed.

"Oh, stop it, we'll sort him out later. Yellow roller please. NOW!"

At last, Mitch wound the last roller at the nape of my neck, tickling me there as she did so. I passed her a pin, and after pinning that roller firmly in place she went about checking the rest of them, tightening or re-rolling a curler here, moving a pin there, until my whole head was a multicoloured mass of rollers, all in neat rows, all the perfect diameter for the particular section of hair.

"Pink or blue?" Mitch asked.

"Pink or blue what? I replied.

"Net. Pink or blue net. We could just put a scarf over you but I don't want the rollers falling out."

"Am I not going under the dryer then?" I asked, somewhat disappointedly.

"You'll have a job." Said Mitch. "Shelley's got it, and unless you can climb through that window we won't be seeing the dryer until Shelley gets back later."

"OK, in that case.... it's got to be pink please." I said with an inane grin on my chops.

"Surprise, surprise." Mitch replied, shaking her head and smiling. "Should've been obvious really. Pink it is then."

With that Mitch came back around to the front of me, bent down a bit, put the net carefully over my rollers then put both her arms around my neck, tying the net into a neat bow at the nape of my neck.

"That OK? She asked. "Not too tight?"

"Feels great." I responded.

"So I see!" said Mitch, making no effort to conceal what she was talking about as she stared at the bulge threatening to break its way through my knickers, through my towel, on towards... who knows where? Mitch drank some more wine, topped up both glasses, then put them both on the floor at a safe distance from the chair. She leaned a bit closer to me, then suddenly kissed me. A gentle kiss, right on the end of my nose. Mitch took my hands, and moved them out of my lap to make room for her to sit. Instead of sitting sideways like I assumed she would, Mitch instead went to straddle my legs, to sit facing me, one of her legs either side of mine, her legs quite wide apart. I guess my legs were a tad too wide apart, and in any case she was a bit restricted in her movements by her skirt, she couldn't quite get across me. We both giggled like a pair of schoolgirls. I squeezed my legs as close together as they would go.

"Is that better?" I asked.

"Nearly," Mitch giggled. "Just lift my skirt up a bit would you?"

Suddenly, I was no longer looking at Mitch. And I definitely wasn't looking at Mummy-Mitch. I was looking at a very good looking woman, in her early-to-mid-forties, with a fantastic figure and some kinky notions that I had only considered in my wildest (wettest?) dreams. She had already confessed to having had lesbian relationships, but 'something was missing'. Maybe I was (or had) that something? Maybe in the same way that my female side offered me both sexual and emotional gratification, it offered those same things to Mitch? I decided not to dwell on things too deeply, or too long, but instead stared intently into her eyes as I gently lifted up the hem of Mitch's skirt, adjusting her apron as I did so. I lifted her hem an inch at a time, afraid to go too far too quickly (so to speak). Even with all that had passed between us, the things we had said, it just didn't seem appropriate even now for me to be able to see her panties, even though I was wearing some, some of hers. Another couple of inches and Mitch was able to sit astride me. She took my hands again, held them well apart, leaned forward, and kissed me. On the lips.

Then another.

"Feel these." Mitch whispered, moving my hands up to my netted rollers. "Feel them, push them against you head. Doesn't that feel nice?"

I did, it did. Another kiss, slightly harder this time.

"Feel these." Mitch whispered again, moving my hands from my head to my chest. "Feel the towel, feel your bra below, feel your boobs." She kissed me again, I kissed her back.

"Feel this."

Again, Mitch moved my hands, this time from my chest to my crutch. I held my penis tight, feeling it, rubbing it slightly in the warm embrace of my knickers, feeling the touch of the towel ever so gently caressing my thighs as I moved my hand slowly back and forth. My other hand seemed redundant, I needed to do something with it. As I couldn't reach behind me to caress my bottom through the towel I moved my hand to between Mitch's legs, resting it very gently on her now moist mound. A thought struck me... I moved my hand carefully upwards, never stopping contact with Mitch, but never squeezing her or rubbing her too hard either. I didn't want to be rough with her, I wanted to be soft.... and gentle... and oh-so-very girlie. My probing fingers reached the lacy waist of Mitch's panties, they felt very much like mine. I pulled the waist forward, and deciding I needed two hands, reluctantly left Willy to his own devices. I took a corner of my towel and tried to feed it down inside the front of Mitch's panties, but it wouldn't reach. I felt Mitch's hand move to between my boobs, half expecting her to start fondling me there, but instead she unclipped the plastic claw that had held the front of the other towel around my shoulders, pulled the towel free and passed it down between our two writhing bodies.

"Here, Sweetheart." Mitch whispered. "Use this one."

I decided on a slight change of tack. Holding Mitch gently around her waist I lifted her up. She took her own weight again on her feet, and stood, legs still astride me. I lifted up Mitch's skirt some more, then taking hold of her knickers pulled them slowly down over her thighs, about as far as she had done with mine earlier in the bathroom. Mitch smiled, then licked her light-cherry painted lips. I folded the towel long-ways, then rolled it into a thin, tight roll, like it was when you went swimming as a kid. I took the towelling roll and placed it high up and tight between Mitch's legs. Then I motioned her to sit again. As she sat, the towel-roll was pushed gently but firmly against her by now very moist outer lips. The other end of the towel roll rested gently but firmly against Willy's one eye. Unable to resist, I reached down between us again and eased my aching but eager member out from his pantie prison, and settled him in the rolls of the towel. As we moved slowly back and forth, back and forth, it was as if Mitch was being gently caressed by a huge towelling penis, not penetrating her, just rubbing, and I was enjoying the outer parts of a huge towelling vagina, again rubbing, softly, gently. With both hands now free, I reached up, lifted Mitch's top. I slid my hands up beneath it and let them rest on her breasts, gently probing her erect nipples through the soft lace of her bra. Mitch put her hands behind my back and hooked her fingers through my bra straps, first pulling then pushing, easing us both backwards and forwards, moving together in perfect time. I put my head forward. Mitch let go of one strap and held me behind my head, pushing on my rollers, making me move my face towards her. My lips met hers and we kissed, our tongues leaping and probing in time with our bodies. Mitch kept one hand on my head, every now and again squeezing a pink roller, then a yellow one, then absentmindedly twiddling the bow tied in my hairnet. Her other hand was on my back, first pulling on my bra strap, then pushing my towel hard against my bare skin, then moving her hand to my front, gently squeezing my breasts before tucking the towel once more between them. We kissed harder and more passionately, we moved, we caressed, we fondled, we rubbed.

We came. Together, in huge spasms that rocked the small chair so much I thought it would surely break under the strain. Mitch threw her head back, gritting her teeth, and using both hands to force my head down between her heaving breasts. She squeezed my head harder, the rollers and pins were digging uncomfortably into my scalp. She squeezed her legs tighter together, crushing mine between her thighs. I felt pain, but the pain was nothing compared to the absolute ecstasy as I let myself go. My hands went behind Mitch, I grabbed her bottom and pulled her lower half hard against me. Every muscle in my body was flexing then relaxing. Every muscle in Mitch's body was flexing, then relaxing. Our muscles flexed, then relaxed a bit more, flexed again, not so hard this time, then relaxed again, a bit more. And so it continued for what seemed an eternity until our muscles could no longer flex, only relax. We collapsed against each other, and hugged. No, I mean really hugged. And smiled.

"Mitch" I whispered. "I think I need some clean knickers."

"So do I." Mitch giggled. "Go find me some would you. Oh, and get some cleans ones for yourself, they're in the second drawer in my bedroom."

I lifted Mitch off me and offered her my seat. She refused, and headed off to the bathroom, letting the rolled up towel drop onto the floor as she went. In Mitch's bedroom I slid open the drawer and stared at the plethora of knickers before me. I rummaged around, picking up a pair here and there, holding them out in front of me to get a proper look. Eventually I chose a slinky black pair for Mitch, all silky and lacy. For me, I didn't know what to choose. It felt right, looking for clean knickers, but at the same time oh-so-wrong. What sort of person was I, rummaging around in someone else's knicker drawer? The feelings of guilt started to return. I decided to leave it, I would go and retrieve my boxers instead, they would be OK. As I turned to leave, Mitch was standing at the bedroom door, propping up the door frame, a lit cigarette in each hand. Her skirt was now straight, her hair brushed, and her top back in its proper place; all she appeared to have removed was her apron, although I guessed she was also knicker-less.

"What's keeping you?" she asked.

"Sorry" I said, feeling myself go red once more. "Wasn't sure what I wanted. I mean, what you wanted. I mean... Here, will these be OK for you?" I stammered as I handed her the black silky garment.

"I prefer cotton" she replied, "but these will be fine for now. Have you got some for yourself?"

I looked down at the floor, getting even redder, and shook my head slowly.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake Sweetheart," said Mitch. "I thought we had flogged this one to death earlier. Stop worrying about it all, just enjoy! Here, I'll get you some."

With that Mitch pushed past me, handing me one of the cigarettes on the way and tut-tutting to herself as she opened the drawer. As I had done just a minute before, Mitch herself rummaged for a while before turning around and showing me a pair of white panties covered in small pink hearts. As with the pair I was wearing earlier, they had a lace trim around the waist and legs. She came over to me, bent down, pulled down my 'old' knickers, lifted my feet one at a time, removed my 'old' knickers, then reversing the process Mitch pulled up the fresh knickers. As she neared the top of my legs Mitch said,

"Lift your towel up a bit Sweetie, let's get you tucked in and comfy."

Mitch gently tucked the now very quiet one back between my legs, pulled my fresh knickers the rest of the way up, lowered my towel back to maintain my dignity, kissed me once, then said,

"Sit. There, at the vanity. Let's get you sorted out."

PART 10

Whilst I sat and made myself comfortable at the vanity unit Mitch retrieved the wine bottle and glasses, handing mine to me as she came back in. I took a long drink.

"Wow, that's good." I said, wiping my lips with the back of my hand. "I suppose after all this wine that I will be staying here tonight?"

Mitch smiled. "Even without the wine you would be staying here, because your hair is still wet and without the dryer it will take ages to dry. You'll have to sleep in your rollers, we'll take them out tomorrow." A pause, then "Maybe..."

"What?" I said. "That doesn't sound very comfortable..."

"Get used to it, Darling" Mitch replied. "Being girlie isn't always a bundle of laughs you know... But it does have its moments."

Mitch went to her wardrobe and started gathering clothes. She looked as if she was picking anything at random, but I suppose she must have known what she was at. I lit another cigarette, and one for Mitch, and waited. Mitch dumped the clothes on the bed, but kept hold of a large, pink silk head-scarf. She folded the scarf into a triangle, and tied it around my rollers and into a knot at the back.

"Two scarves?" I asked. "Do we need this one if I have got the roller net on?"

"Yeah," she replied. "Why not. But don't worry," she added with that mischievous smile. "We'll make sure the front rollers are clearly visible for when you pop out to the shops later."

"When I what?" I almost screamed. "You mean go out? Like this?"

"Of course not, silly." Mitch laughed. "You can't go out in nothing but a towel and knickers. That's why we are going to put you in a nice skirt and top. Come to think of it, it's not too warm out there, you'll need some tights as well, and a cardie. And shoes. Or would you prefer boots?"

I was alarmed to say the least at the very prospect of venturing out. But I knew we were running out of cigarettes, the wine bottle was nearly empty, and...

"Oh, what the hell." I said. "D'ya think anyone will notice?"

"Not when I've finished with you." Mitch replied. "Besides, the off-licence is only three or four doors away, no-one will even see you. Now, get that towel off so I can get you dressed."

Mitch read the look of obvious disappointment on my face.

"Later!" she laughed. "If you ask nicely, you can take a towel to bed with us if you like."

"Us?" I said, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes." Mitch nodded. "Us. The couch isn't the most comfortable place to sleep, and my bed is a double, and it gets quite cold at night, and... Are you incapable of keeping him under control?" she gasped, looking at the sudden bulge in my knickers. "If you don't put that thing away, I'm going to bite it!"

"Later, Mitch" I laughed. "If you ask nicely..."

Mitch did not reply, just looked at me and pulled a silly school-girl face. She took a full slip from the bed, a cream-coloured satin slip with lace trim around the hem and bodice, slipped it over my head then down, past my waist where it ended two inches or so above my knees. She looked, nodded an approval to herself, then picked up a dusky-pink long-sleeved top and a denim skirt, similar to her own but maybe slightly more A-line, a bit wider at the hem. I put the top on myself as Mitch started to help me into the skirt. She stopped abruptly.

"No, hang on," She said. "Tights first."

She went back to her knicker drawer, pulled out a pair of light-tan tights, and motioned me to sit back down at the vanity. Then Mitch carefully scrunched up one leg of the tights, and slipped that leg over my foot. She repeated this with the other leg before telling me to stand so she could pull them up. Now I know why they call them tights! At least they were helping to keep a certain member out of sight and out of trouble, although not out of mind. With my tights, and other 'bits' comfortably in place Mitch helped me on with the skirt. I was a bit surprised at how well everything fitted, but then again me and Mitch were about the same size - if anything, Mitch was a couple of inches taller. I could not get into the boots however, not without either damaging them beyond recognition, or doing the same to my feet. Instead, we opted for a pair of open-toed mules which fitted reasonably well, and it was only on close examination that you would be able to see my heels protruding slightly beyond the heel of the shoe. The shoes had about a two-inch heel, so not impossible to walk (waddle?) in, but not that straightforward nonetheless. I walked around the bedroom a few times, my stance and stride improving as I did. Mitch once again nodded her approval.

"You walk in those shoes too well you know, have you been practicing or were you just born to wear heels?"

I laughed, but said nothing. Just kept on walking around the bedroom until Mitch finally walked back over to the vanity and said,

"Alright, no need to wear the carpet out. Now, come and sit again and we'll do something with that ugly mug of yours."

I pulled a face and stuck out my tongue as if to emphasise her last comment.

Back at the vanity, Mitch opened her make-up bag and pulled out a selection. She started with a light powder-based foundation, followed by just a hint of blusher. Next came some eyeliner, eye-shadow, and mascara. Lastly, Mitch carefully outlined my lips with a dark pink pencil, before filling in the lips themselves with two layers of mid-pink lipstick.

"There," she said. "That's all you need really for an evening in. Not too much, nothing tarty, just right. You look gorgeous. Go see."

I took a long look at myself in the full length mirror in the hall. To say I was surprised at how I looked would be an understatement. To say I didn't like what I saw would be an out-and-out lie. I looked at myself from every conceivable angle that my neck would allow, standing in different poses while Mitch looked on, smiling broadly.

"What do you see, Sweetheart?" she asked, coming to stand beside me.

I looked again. I stared at the reflection in front of me. Pink silk scarf covering a pink net, which in turn covered a head-full of rollers. Nicely painted face - like Mitch had said, not tarty, not over the top, just... well, pretty I guess. I looked at my pink top with just the right amount of breast giving me that shapely, feminine figure. If I looked really closely I could just make out the slight rifts caused by the straps on my bra and slip. I liked that look. My eyes continued down, past my reasonably trim waist, and lower. There was no sign at all of any manly elements below my waist, just a neat, flat front to my skirt which finished just below my knees. My eyes continued down my smooth tanned (or at least that's how they looked) lower-legs down to my open-toed shoes with their two-inch wedge.

"Well?" Mitch asked again. "What do you see?"

I turned and looked at Mitch, and lowering my eyes just a little I replied,

"Mitch, it isn't a case of 'what' I see, it's more 'who' I see. And I see another version of you... I suppose I see me and you, but all in one. Does that make sense?"

"Hmm," she nodded. "Perfect sense. And?" she added, smiling.

"And, I like it. No, I love it. Thanks Mitch, thanks so very much." I started to well up.

"Hey, Sweetheart," said Mitch coming closer toward me. "Don't cry, you'll smudge your eye make-up, we can't have that, can we?"

"Guess not," I sniffed. "Sorry, it's just, I think... well, it's just..."

"Your feminine side? The lovely, sweet girl in you who you have denied for so long?"

Mitch came even closer. We hugged again, really intently. I wanted that hug to last forever. But, nothing ever does....

PART 11

We were interrupted by the shrill ring of the phone. Mitch went off to answer it, leaving me standing in the hallway, taking one more clandestine glance at my new appearance before going back to the bedroom to retrieve our wine glasses, and the now empty bottle. It was with some dismay that I noticed the cigarette packet was also empty.

Mitch's telephone conversation was short, but full of 'ums' and 'ahs' and 'uh-hums', a hushed 'you'll never believe this, I'll explain later...' and ending in a cheery 'ta-ta'.

"That was Shelley," she said as I took a seat on the sofa. "She's back home already, wanted to know if she could join us, wants her hair done before the morning."

"What did you tell her?" I asked, suddenly feeling very, very apprehensive.

"Well I said 'yes' of course. I always do Shelley's hair, you'll like her - she's great fun."

"But," I protested, "then at least let me get changed first, get these rollers out, get this make up off... I can't let her see me looking like this!"

"Looking like what?" Mitch frowned. "A girl? So what? She has seen a girl before."

"Yeah," I said, possibly too angrily because Mitch's frown deepened. "She may have seen a girl, but not a bloke dressed as a girl, not a bloke like me... I'm sorry, and I know you've worked really hard on me today, been really kind and sweet to me, but I'm just not sure I can do this!"

Mitch turned away from me, before saying,

"There you go again. Mr Macho-effin idiot! I thought we had gone through this so many times today. Look at you, take a good look. You don't look like a bloke, you look like a girl. You even act like a girl when you don't realise you are. You wanted to be a girl, you hardly put up much of a fight when all this started, you've spent the afternoon messing up MY knickers, so what's the big deal? And besides, Shelley will like you; please trust me on this, she will really like you..."

"The 'big deal' as you put it," I said, somewhat quieter now, "is that I want to be a girl sometimes, but not if I'm gonna get ridiculed, or laughed at, or worse... What if Shelley does her pieces and walks out in disgust? What then? You lose your best mate. Is that what you want?"

Mitch turned to face me again.

"No. Do you?"

"Well of course I don't, I just want what's best for you. And Shelley. Your friendship."

"Well in that case," Mitch said, "Stay. Meet Shelley. Help me with her hair. She will love you as much as I do, please believe me. Erik, Erika, Sweetheart, do you love me?"

I was a bit taken aback, both by the nature of the question, and the way Mitch just came out with it. Something clicked in a far off part of my brain, and as I stood there, to all intents and purposes being a girl, recollecting the day's events, the almost lesbian-like activity of the afternoon, the answer immediately became very obvious.

"Yes Mitch, I do. I love you. Lots. But I need to know why you are so sure Shelley will be OK with all this before I commit to stay. Please?"

"OK." Mitch agreed. "It won't take long, I'll tell you about it on the way to the shop. C'mon, grab a jacket, I'll come with you in case you get lost or frightened."

She had that mischievous look again, and for some reason, not sure why, I believed I would like what Mitch was going to tell me.

"Hey, this isn't easy." I moaned as for the second time in quick succession I almost tripped down the stairs from Mitch's flat, it seemed the heels were determined to do their own thing, go their own way. But, with a little help from Mitch, supporting me like I was some old lady, we made it to the bottom and headed off to the shop, my apprehension mounting with every wobbly step I took. I had rescued a ten pound note from my bike jacket pocket on the way out, and clutched it closely in my fist.

After what seemed an eternity, with every pair of eyes behind every window seemingly looking out, glaring at me, saying "look at that pervert!" we reached the shop door. Mitch had not started to tell me what I wanted to know, but I think I was concentrating too much on walking and my own paranoia to have listened anyway. I looked through the glass door into the shop. Good, only the Indian shop-owner behind the till, and a single woman buying beer and Coke. I pushed open the door and, remembering my manners, held it whilst I let Mitch in first. Old habits die hard I suppose. I followed Mitch inside, making myself as small as possible behind the Guinness display, and quietly prayed to every God (and demi-God) that I could think of that I could suddenly become invisible. It didn't work. The lady buying the beer and Coke looked in our direction, smiled at us both, and rather too loudly for my liking said,

"Hello Mitch, hello..." as she looked at me, then back at Mitch. "How are you? Long-time-no-see. You keeping alright? Still doing your hairdressing bit then?" she added, looking squarely at me. Mitch returned the pleasantries, then also turned to look at me.

"Yes," she said. "So many heads - so few rollers."

I went red, the lady laughed, then looking directly at me she said,

"Mitch is great with hair. Better than any of the so-called salons around here. She knows how to make a girl look good. You wait, time it's dry you are gonna look really pretty." With that, she turned back to Mitch. Was that a wink I noticed?

The lady paid for her beer and Coke whilst I picked out two bottles of red. As the lady was leaving she said a cheery "night-night, you two. Hope you like your hair." Without thinking, I put the wine bottles on the counter and went quickly back to the door, holding it open for the lady as she carried her purchases through. Her comment on exiting made me shiver, suddenly I was not feeling so great.

"Oh, thank you. What a nice young man. And don't worry, I'm sure you'll like it. Your girlie hairdo I mean. Bye-bye."

I wasn't sure where to look or what to do, so I looked at Mitch, putting on my best 'what-the-hell-have-you-got-me-into' expression. Mitch just smiled, and mouthed a kiss which she blew in my direction. I don't know if that made me feel better or not.

Mitch asked the man for two packets of Marlboro Lights to go with the wine, at least I wouldn't have to say anything, looking like a girl is one thing, sounding like one is a totally different ballgame. I handed the money over to Mitch, she paid, and handed me back a very small amount of change, which I put in the charity collection box on the counter as I didn't think I would be able to put it in my skirt pocket in a ladylike way, and besides, I wanted both hands free to negotiate the stairs on the way back to the flat.

As the money dropped into the box, the man behind the counter smiled, and thanked me. If he had cottoned on as to my true gender, he had the grace not to say anything. That made feel a little better as I picked up the bag containing the bottles of wine, added both packets of cigarettes, and headed for the door.

"Bye Mitch." Said the man behind the counter. "And bye.... darlin'" he added, looking over at me. I thought Mitch was going to wet herself as she tried not to burst into giggles.

"What's so funny?" I asked with a mock hurt look on my face when we were outside.

"Oh, nothing Sweetheart. Now let me fill you in on Shelley....."

As we walked slowly back towards the flat, Mitch looked over to me, then putting an arm around my shoulder and, holding me close, she began.

"Well, you know I said before how I like certain 'bits' of men, it's men in general I have a problem with..."

"Yeah," I replied slowly.

"Well, it seems Shelley shares my views. She's had a hard time with men in the past, enjoys a bit of willy now and again, just wishes they weren't attached to men. Just like me."

We both laughed. An easy-going, spontaneous laugh. The sort of laugh two girl-friends who have known each other forever can share.

"And?" I said, prodding Mitch in the ribs with my free elbow. Mitch blushed a little.

"Well, me and Shelley have been friends for years and years, I do her hair, she helps me with mine sometimes, we go out together, we swap clothes, we're good company for each other."

"Oh," I said. "Does Shelley wear your knickers too? Like me?"

"No, no silly," Mitch laughed. "Tops and skirts, maybe a posh frock for a posh do. That's all."

"And?" I continued.

"And what?" asked Mitch, looking at me and feigning astonishment, but I swear I saw a hint of that mischievous grin.

"And everything! So you both had a hard time with men, neither of you are that keen on men per se, you spend a bit of time together, you..............." The penny dropped.

"Oh, I think I get it now. You, and Shelley, you're more than, how shall I put this, more than just good friends then?"

Mitch looked over at me. Suddenly she looked sad, a bit withdrawn into herself, maybe lost in thought. She took a deep breath.

"Yes, Erik, Erika darling. More than good friends."

"Am I going to mess up a perfectly good relationship?" I asked, now feeling very down myself.

"No, not really." Mitch managed to smile again. "I suppose we are good friends, really great friends. And sometimes we both need some, what's the word?"

"Sex?"

"I was going to say comfort." Said Mitch, now smiling broadly. "Comfort and sexual gratification. And emotional gratification. Same as you do. And sometimes we help each other out. So, I guess we're both lesbians, or at least partly. Bisexual I suppose might be more like it. Look, I'll make this simple for you. Shelley and I both prefer women, but we also both enjoy certain physical attributes that only men possess. OK, a dildo or vibrator sometimes makes a nice change, but it's not the same. Is this making sense?"

"Yes Mitch." I hugged her. "Perfect sense. I think..... But what if Shelley doesn't like me? What if she thinks I'm a perv?"

Mitch rolled her eyes. "Oh Erika, you can be so slow sometimes. You have everything going for you."

"I do?" Now I was confused.

"Yes, you do. Think about it. You're great round the flat, fixing things and building things, so you've got great 'manly' attributes, and your feminine side and girlie nature means you've also got great female attributes. Right now, you look like a girl, you've been acting like a girl all day, and you've given me a 'really nice time' if you know what I mean." Mitch giggled.

"I am, I mean I do, I mean I did? I mean... Sorry Mitch, I'm still not sure I fully understand where you are coming from..."

Mitch stopped dead in her tracks, turned to face me, put both hands on my shoulders and gently shook them. Almost angrily, and too loud for my liking she said,

"Erik, Erika, Sweetheart, do you want me to tattoo it across that thick head of yours? You look like a girl, a very girlie-girl. You act like a girl. You love girlie things. You love girls. And YOU'VE GOT A WILLY. WHAT MORE CAN SHELLEY OR ME ASK FOR? Trust me, like I said before, Shelley will just adore you. But just remember you are MY girlfriend now, not hers!"

Mitch giggled again. I just stood there, dumbstruck. I'm sure my chin would have dropped to the ground if Mitch hadn't leant across just then and kissed me squarely on the mouth.

"You mean....." I managed to stutter.

"Yes!" said Mitch. "We can have a threesome. I've always fancied one of those."

We walked back the rest of the way in silence. Mitch with a huge (and very mischievous) grin on her face, me trying to get my head round what Mitch had told me. Particularly her last statement. We climbed the steps to Mitch's flat, it seemed easier going up stairs than it was going down, or maybe I was just getting used to heels? By the time we stepped inside the front door I must have fully understood everything that Mitch had said, because suddenly I felt the familiar feel of something waking up. Something that woke up much quicker when it realised it was still cocooned in panties, and that those in turn were covered with a skirt. I put my hands to my rollered head again, as if to check that my rollers were still there, my scarf was still in place, my net was doing its intended job. Mitch caught my actions.

"Awww, that's so sweet. So girlie." She said. "C'mere and give us a cuddle."

I could feel myself going a bit red, but went over to Mitch anyway, kissed her, then hugged her tight. Very tight.

"Well, hello again." Said Mitch, pushing her hand down so she could feel the growing bulge in my skirt. "Are you coming out to play?"

I went redder, but Mitch just hugged me harder before adding in a whisper,

"Not yet, darling. You've got work to do. And by the time you've finished you will be fit to burst!"

Mitch laughed. I closed my eyes, trying not to think about what might be in store for fear of dampening yet another pair of Mitch's knickers. Or another towel. Or both. It was as if Mitch was reading my mind as she let go of me and, walking towards the kitchen with the wine, said,

"Remind me to buy you some knickers next week. And a bra. Red OK?"

"I would prefer white or pink with little hearts on them." I replied sheepishly.

"No, silly. Wine. Is red wine OK?"

"Oh, yeah, of course." I mumbled. "Red, fine. Sorry, I thought you meant..."

"Mmmm," said Mitch smiling. "Red. Just like the colour of your cheeks. Now light us a fag, we've just got time for a smoke before Shelley arrives. Oh, and grab a clean towel out of the airing cupboard would you. Shelley prefers lilac, there should be a couple of clean ones there. Boy, have you got some washing to do later."

PART 12

I smoked my cigarette in silence, and sipped my wine. To be honest, whilst I was a bit excited about the prospect of Shelley arriving any minute now, the overriding emotion just then was one of fear. My mind went back in time, to the time when my father caught me wearing one of Mum's aprons, to another time when I was scolded and hit for playing hairdressers with the girl over the road. Funny, my brother was playing too, but he never got hit. To another time when Mum had asked me to model a wig whilst she set it on yellow spongy rollers. I would have been around 8 or 9. Dad came in, saw me, laughed at me. Ridiculed me. I tore off the wig and ran into my room in tears, unable to understand why my dad would ridicule me, and unable to understand why wearing the wig felt 'right', even though it was obviously wrong. Why were these events so prominent in my memory? Why did they seem so important to me, but probably long-forgotten by my parents. My mind moved on, a more recent time, the time I mentioned to Mum that I might get a perm. What would she say if she saw me now? Would I wash out my curls before going home? What would my dad say? Decision made - the curls would definitely have to disappear before I got home.

I was shaken out of my meanderings by the sound of the doorbell. In fact, I don't think I've jumped so much in my life. My stomach was suddenly all in knots, my mouth felt dry and my hands felt wet. Mitch got up and answered the door. My guilt feelings returned, I felt sick. I heard whisperings from the hall, and what? A giggle? The whisperings seemed to go on forever. I took another drag on my ciggie. It was already down to the stub, I burnt my finger. I took another drink, big mistake, just made the feelings of nausea worse. I stubbed out the cigarette and lit another, trying not to listen to the conversation in the hall, but at the same time trying to listen. In the end I decided to quietly await my fate, so I moved across to the window, and just stood there absentmindedly looking at my reflection in the glass, with my back to the door from the hall. Time seemed to stand still, each second seemed like a minute, until I heard,

"Wow. Look at you. You look fantastic. Hello, I'm Shelley. You must be Erika. Thanks for shutting my window earlier, Mitch told me all about the gutter and the rain and her little knight in motorcycle gear who came to her rescue."

I turned around, trying (but not succeeding I fear) to make the gesture seem as natural as possible. A spontaneous gesture, rather than a contrived one whereby every bit of me seemed to be ignoring the brain's instructions to turn about. And I just knew that my cheeks were doing an excellent impression of a beetroot.

"H-h-h- hi Shelley." I stammered. "Pleased to meet you. Mitch has told me so much about you..." I regretted that last comment even before I had finished blurting it out.

Shelley was around mid-30s, about my height, slim, with shoulder length brown hair that flicked and waved as she moved. She was attractive, probably even pretty, and wore jeans, trainers, and a big baggy sweat top zipped halfway up. Beyond the zip I could just make out the top of a white camisole. Suddenly I felt overdressed.

Mitch reappeared from the hall with a big smile, looked at me, looked at Shelley, picked up her empty wine glass and said,

"Shelley, glass of wine? Erika, another?"

"Mmm, lovely." Shelley replied. I could only nod my head, still not sure what to say, what to do, how to act, how not to act. You name it, right then I didn't know how to do it. Again, Mitch must have been reading my thoughts as she came across to me and whispered in my ear,

"Don't worry, you'll be fine. Just relax and be you. The real you. I'll get you a drink."

As Mitch went into the kitchen to fill up the glasses, Shelley came a bit closer to me, tilted her head to one side, then with a Mitch-grin said,

"Wow. Look at you. You look so... so... so natural. Did Mitch set your hair?" She added, looking at my scarf and rollers. I was feeling terribly embarrassed but managed a nod and a quiet 'yes'.

"Then you are going to look really fantastic when it's finished. Have you curled your hair before?"

I shook my head this time.

"Wow, even better then. Curls always seem to look better the first time. Maybe it's the drastic change of appearance, maybe it's just the whole thing of shampooing and rolling and drying and combing out and everything."

"How drastic is drastic?" I managed to say. "I mean, God, what do I mean? I mean..."

"Would you stop worrying and just relax. You're gonna be fine." It was Mitch's voice from behind me. She had a glass of wine in each hand, and nodded her head in the direction of the sofa as an indication that we should sit down before she handed Shelley and me a glass each. Shelley drank half of hers in one go, I just sipped mine, aware of the amount I had drunk already, and wanting to maintain some semblance of sobriety. I think though by now it was probably too late, the wine was definitely affecting me. All of a sudden I felt relaxed, at ease. At ease with my circumstances, and at ease with the people around me. It was a good feeling, and one that I hoped I would feel many times in the future now that the initial ground had been broken.

I still wasn't too sure what to say, and was aware that there was an embarrassing silence in the room. Once more Mitch came to the rescue.

"So, Shelley, what are we doing? Just a wash and set or does it need a trim?"

"Wash and set will be fine Mitch, you trimmed it not long ago, don't think it really needs another yet."

"Okey-dokey, no problem. Now, quick question. Would you mind if Erika washed it for you? I just need to tidy up the kitchen a bit."

"No, course not." Shelley said cheerily. "It will be fun. Have you ever washed another girl's hair before, Erika?"

"Sorry, no, I haven't.." I replied. "Is that a problem?"

"Of course it isn't." Shelley and Mitch both said at the same time, then Shelley continued,

"Like I said, it will be fun. It isn't that difficult really, and I'll let you know if you're doing OK. C'mon then, let's get started."

Shelley was already standing and was removing her top. I had been correct in my initial guess of what she was wearing underneath, a white vest-stroke-camisole with thin shoulder straps and a lace edging at the hem and neckline, a very deep neckline. Beneath the cami straps I could see white bra straps, the bra supporting ample, but not too ample breasts with a perfect cleavage. I couldn't help myself looking, a gesture that didn't go unnoticed by either woman. Mitch coughed quietly. I realised that maybe my eyes had wandered too far for too long, and once again I felt my cheeks reddening as I looked for a plausible comment to get myself out of the hole.

"What a lovely top." I said, smiling at Shelley. "Really suits you and shows off your, shows off your, erm, figure." Mitch and Shelley looked at each other and laughed.

"Thanks," said Shelley. "I'll let you try it later if you want."

Without thinking I replied almost instantly.

"Yeah, that would be great. I promise I won't ruin it."

Mitch and Shelley laughed again, before Mitch said,

"Go on you two, into the bathroom. And don't forget the conditioner Erika. And don't be all night!"

I put my wine glass down, hauled myself to my feet and followed Shelley out into the hall and to the bathroom. As soon as Shelley got in the door she went to take off her camisole, I obviously looked a bit shocked at this because she looked at me, smiled, then said,

"I always take it off, in case it gets wet. You can't try it on if it's wet can you?"

I didn't look too convinced.

"What's up?" she added. "Are we feeling nervous? What's the problem, we're all girls together aren't we? Here, hang this somewhere out of the way."

I took the top and hung it by its straps on the back of the door. I knew I had not got off to a great start and wanted to make amends. I grabbed the clean towel I had collected from the airing cupboard earlier, held it open at arms' length, and motioned Shelley to turn around so I could put it around her shoulders. Shelley stood with her back to me, and I wrapped the towel around her, reaching down to fasten it with the little plastic claw-thing that Mitch had used earlier on me.

"Hey, too tight." Shelley said. "You're strangling me. Not like that, like this..."

With that she took my hand and guided it lower, stopping just above her cleavage. I fastened the two edges of the towel, noticing that Shelley seemed to move 'into' the towel as I clipped it, moving forward so my hands brushed her chest beneath the towel. I felt stirrings once more. The one-eyed-trouser-snake obviously didn't need too much in the way of sleep.

Shelley knelt down, but unlike me, she didn't face the bath, she had her back to it, resting her neck on the lip of the tub, her hair cascading into the bath behind her.

"I prefer it this way." She said, as if by way of an explanation. "And it's easier to talk if I've got my head up instead of inside the bath. And I can see you better."

I smiled. "OK." I said, "but it doesn't look too comfortable. Here, let me make it a bit easier on your neck."

I took another small towel off the rail, folded it along its length then rolled it into a sort of pillow. My mind went back to the other towel earlier, the same rolled up shape, the things we did..... My tights and knickers were starting to feel just a tad too tight, so I dismissed the thoughts as quick as I could, although not before Shelley noticed that my skirt was perhaps not hanging as a young girl's skirt should? She smiled, but said nothing.

"Lift your head up a bit." I continued, then, supporting Shelley's head with one hand, I carefully placed the towel pillow on the lip of the bath before gently lowering her head back down.

"Hey," she said. "that feels much better, feels really comfortable. How sweet of you to think of such things. Pity more fellas don't think like you do."

I gathered together the shampoo and conditioner, and was just about to turn on the water when Shelley tut-tutted at me.

"Haven't you forgotten something?" she said, looking at my skirt.

"Don't think so." I responded, mentally checking that all the lotions were present and correct. "Like what?"

"Your apron, Erika." She replied. "You know how fussy Mitch is about keeping her clothes clean and dry. No go get one and put it on while the water heats up."

I turned on the taps, and handed Shelley the shower attachment to hold whilst I disappeared off to find an apron. Mitch was in the kitchen.

"You OK, Sweetheart?" She asked. "Is there a problem?"

"No, Mitch, no problem. Just need an apron that's all. Don't want your clothes getting soap-stained or soggy."

"Oh, what a good girl you are," said Mitch smiling broadly. Mitch took the pink and purple gingham apron out of the drawer, put it round me, tied it in a neat bow at the back, and gave me a kiss on the neck as she sent me back off to the bathroom.

Shelley was waiting, shower attachment in hand, the water now at the right temperature. I took the shower head off her, and started to wet her hair, brushing it backwards into the bath as I did so. When her hair was completely soaked, I got Shelley to hold the shower attachment while I squirted a good dollop of shampoo into my hand, then rubbed my hands together and placed them on Shelley's head. Shelley closed her eyes and smiled as I began massaging the sweet-smelling shampoo through her hair, caressing her scalp and the nape of her neck, gently rubbing the hair as I had felt Mitch do with mine. Shelley's smile widened.

"Hey," she said, "for someone who's never done this before you're doing a pretty good job. I reckon you've found your vocation at last. How about you give up the boring bank job and become a hairdresser's junior instead? Just think, you get to wear an apron, wash hair, play with rollers, and fold towels all day."

"Mmm," I replied, "sounds like my kind of work. Don't think I could do it though, bit of a girlie job isn't it?"

Shelley laughed loudly and opened her eyes to look at me.

"What do you mean, 'girlie job'? Have you seen yourself recently?"

I looked hurt, but felt a bit embarrassed again, a fact that didn't go unnoticed by Shelley as she continued.

"I know what you mean, though. A lot of blokes would see it as a girlie job, but couldn't you do it in female mode? You know, go to work as a girl, wash hair and fold towels all day, then go home and be all blokey with your mates?"

I went redder as the front of my skirt started to lose its shape again, another fact that didn't go unnoticed. Shelley gently rubbed my leg.

"Don't get embarrassed, I was only kidding. And don't worry about your skirt either. Let's face it, I like girls, I like willies, and I absolutely adore getting my hair done. You also like girls, I guess you like getting your hair done, but you are not keen on willies. Mitch tells me towels and knickers are more your thing?"

I didn't know whether to laugh with her, cry, or just run away. I knew what I was like, what I had always been like for as long as I could remember. But talking about it so openly was a form of acceptance, something I was still loathe to do. Yes, I loved towels and hair and everything in between, but that still didn't make it right. The way I was dressed now, the way my hair was being done, the way Shelley was dressed (or undressed should I say), the way I was doing her hair, all seemed so wrong. Felt really great but seemed so wrong. The guilt was starting to kick in big time, I needed it to go away. I didn't want the boring narrow-minded blokey bit of me taking away my fun, stopping me being the real me as it had done so many times over so many years. I fought with my mind, trying to shut 'him' out and let 'her' in. I tried hard to concentrate on what I was doing, tried to focus, tried to ignore the lump in the front of my knickers pushing hard against my skirt and apron.

"OK," I said, "time to rinse." I took the shower attachment back from Shelley as she tilted her head back in the bath. With both her hands now free, she crossed them in front of her, leaning them on her breasts, rubbing them softly through the towel as I rinsed and re-rinsed her hair. When I was sure that all the shampoo was out, I gave the shower back to Shelley, and applied some conditioner. Shelley's hair was much longer and thicker than mine, and I wasn't sure how to get the conditioner through without either tangling her hair too much or pulling it all out.

"Use a comb Sweetheart, the one with the very wide teeth." It was Mitch, she had been standing in the doorway quietly watching. "Here. I'll get it for you."

Mitch returned with the comb, and seeing I still wasn't sure she gestured me out of the way a bit, then leant across her best friend and started carefully combing the conditioner through from roots to ends. Mitch leant further over Shelley, her breasts now almost in direct contact with Shelley's face. Shelley gently kissed first one breast, then the other, lingering on the second one just long enough for the nipple to become erect. Mitch smiled and swayed a little as she continued combing. Shelley pulled on the nipple with her tongue, her hands now fondling and rubbing her own breasts through the towel and through the flimsy lace of her bra. I stood and watched, feeling uncomfortably like some kind of voyeur, but enjoying it nonetheless. It took every bit of willpower within me to stop myself from feeling by own breasts, from putting my hand up my skirt and squeezing the wicked one. Maybe Mitch sensed I was watching, maybe Mitch knew I was watching, because she quickly straightened up, adjusted her top and said,

"There, done. You're ready for rinsing. I'll go and get my things ready, Erika, will you rinse Shelley's hair Darling?"

It was if the sudden cessation in activities between Shelley and Mitch caused a concurrent cessation in my own feelings as willy decided to go limp again - for now anyway. I started rinsing out Shelley's hair, stroking it along its length and letting the warm water douse every hair. The job was almost finished when suddenly Shelley's hand was on my leg again, holding it gently for a few seconds as if waiting for a negative reaction or response from me. I said nothing, did nothing, just continued rinsing the last bit. Shelley's hand went higher, to the hem of my skirt. Again, a few second's pause, then higher still, up inside my skirt. Higher still, her hand was now at my crotch, gently stroking my member, rubbing my tights which in turn rubbed my knickers which in turn, of course, rubbed me. The sensation was fantastic, almost overpowering, I swayed a little, then a bit more.

Then I swayed too much and managed to spray water all over Shelley's face, neck, and the top of her arms.

"Yeuck!" Shelley shouted. "What did you do that for?"

"S-s-s-sorry Shelley," I mumbled, "didn't mean to. Sorry..." My erection disappeared faster than it had arrived as I readied myself for another telling off. It didn't happen. Shelley started to laugh.

"Hey, don't get so worried, I was only kidding. It doesn't matter, you'll just have to dry it off, won't you?" I'm sure both Mitch and Shelley bought their mischievous grins from the same shop.

I rinsed out the last bit of conditioner, and squeezed the excess water from Shelley's hair. Then I took the clip off the towel, opened it wide and wrapped it around her head, hoping I had done it right. Shelley stood up, the towel almost falling off straight away. She bent over, grabbed the ends of the towel and twisted it herself, flicking the end back over her head.

"There." she said, smiling at me. "Like that."

I reached behind her and retrieved the rolled up towel from the lip of the bath. It was warm where Shelley had been resting her neck on it. It was also very soft. I unrolled it and gently patted dry Shelley's neck and arms before she turned to face me, saying,

"Don't forget the front."

I dried her chest and the front of her neck and shoulders, carefully moving her bra-straps out of the way to dry behind them and replacing one side before commencing on the other.

"Forget it..." Shelley said. "It's still wet, and my jeans are damp too. You really did go a bit off target with that shower spray didn't you?"

With that Shelley reached behind herself and unclasped her bra, letting it fall from her shoulders and onto the floor. The she unbuttoned her jeans, forced them over her hips and stepped out of them, leaving them on the floor beside her bra.

"Pass me another towel, would you." She said, as she stood there in nothing but knickers with a towel on her head. Mitch reappeared at the door.

"Hey." Mitch said to Shelley. "You look just like Erik did earlier on. But his boobs are a bit smaller."

Shelley laughed. "Was it Erik, or Erika earlier?" Mitch looked at me as once again my face reddened and my eyes dropped to the floor.

"It was Erik at first," Mitch replied. "But we both knew that Erika couldn't wait to come out. Didn't we, Erika? And she did come out. And is she happy now?"

I nodded as Shelley wrapped the towel around her, and followed Mitch out into the living room. As I watched them leave, seeing how Shelley was attired, knowing what was coming next for her, I felt a pang of jealousy. I wanted it to be me again.

I could hear the two of them talking, laughing a little, giggling a lot, so decided to leave them to it for a minute or two. Instead of joining them straightaway I folded the remaining towel and hung it neatly on the rail. Then I rinsed out and wiped the bath tub, and finally picked up Shelley's discarded jeans and bra and hung them to dry beside the towel before joining them in the living room. Shelley was seated in the same chair that I had sat in before, her towel was still around her head, and she seemed to be holding the towel around her body as if to stop it falling off, one arm around her chest, one in her lap, her hand gently pushing the towel into her crotch. That's what it looked like to me anyway..... But then it was probably just my male testosterone-driven (filthy?) mind working overtime again. It was, of course, what I would have done if I were in the same situation. The soft towelling against my chest, the soft cotton of the panties against my crotch, the two textures working together and combining to create a sensuous, tactile embrace. That feeling of being vulnerable, but at the same time protected by the underwear and outer wrap. I hated the other feeling that came with hair washing, the feeling of cold water running down my neck from my wet hair. Thinking about it, wrapping a towel around one's head to prevent that just seemed so perfectly natural and the sensible thing to do. It also felt good, it was, as Mitch had said earlier, a source of sexual gratification, but more importantly, emotional gratification. It also caused more feelings of gut-wrenching guilt than I could usually deal with. Of course I would want to wrap myself in that fundamentally feminine way, to feel the emotional stress relieved, but that in itself would bring on the sexual aspects, which led to guilt. It was a confusing time for me. I pushed the thoughts away, not sure where they were going, happy to let myself be me but worried that 'he' would fight back a little bit harder, worried that 'he' would win again, worried that 'he' would beat me up for weeks on this one.

"More wine you two?" I asked, partly to refocus my own thoughts, and partly to let them know that I was back.

"Oh, go on then," said Shelley. "I haven't got too far to stagger home."

"Mmm, me too." said Mitch. "And be a good girl and fetch a clean ashtray."

"Yes ma'am," I replied, doing a pathetic excuse for a curtsy, lifting the corners of my apron slightly as I did so.

"You do the maid bit too well," laughed Shelley. "Are you sure you haven't done any of this before?"

"Only in your dreams." I replied, sharing the laugh. "And who knows, maybe your dreams can come true?"

It was Mitch's turn to laugh.

"Any more cheek from you 'young lady' and I'll turn you into a full-time maid for me and Shelley. What do you think Shelley?"

"Ooh, yes, sounds good. He could do all the cooking, the cleaning, the washing, the ironing, it would be so nice. And he could wash our hair every day..."

"And bath us every day..." added Mitch.

"And dry us..." Shelley said with a grin and a wink.

"I'll get the wine then." I said, before they could think of anything else to hit me with.

As I walked past them both and into the kitchen, Shelley looked up at Mitch and mouthed something. I didn't hear what was said, but Mitch giggled and nodded approvingly.

I returned with a tray laden with three full wine glasses, a clean ashtray, a packet of cigarettes and, of course, a lighter. Mitch and I sat back on the sofa, Shelley sat in the dining chair, still wrapped in her towels.

"So, what happens now?" I asked, taking a long drag on my cigarette.

"We smoke our fags, and drink some wine." Mitch replied.

"What about Shelley's hair?" I asked.

"It will be fine for a few more minutes," said Shelley. "The towel on it will dry it just enough for Mitch to set it without having to rub my hair dry. Didn't you know, that all that hard towel-drying can damage your hair. Better to let it dry a bit on its own first, the towel helps."

"And stops cold water from running down your neck" I added, pulling a face. "I hate that."

"Well," said Mitch, "you need never worry about that again. Just remember, when you get out of the shower, wrap a towel around your head and leave it for 20 minutes or so. Then take off the towel and you're ready to style; not too wet and not too dry."

"Yeah, right." I said. "I can just see me walking around at home with a towel on my head. My dad would ridicule me to death, my mum would say 'what are you doing that for? Boys don't need to do that. Don't be so silly' and my brothers would just wet themselves laughing. No, don't think so somehow."

"Of course," Mitch said sadly, "I had forgotten about your home life, how you can't be you, how you are expected to live up to everyone else's expectations of effin manliness."

"Never mind," put in Shelley, "we prefer your girliness, don't we Mitch?"

Mitch nodded, then said with a smile, "Yes, we do. Unless there is some guttering to fix though, then the manliness bit is OK!"

We finished our cigarettes, and Mitch took the towel off Shelley's head and wrapped it around her shoulders. I passed her the plastic claw thing, and she clipped the front of the towel in place. Mitch started rummaging through the box of curlers, looking for the right size rollers and some pins.

"Here," I said, "let me..."

With that, I went and stood beside Mitch and took the box from her, handing her a roller and a pin on each colour command. As she set Shelley's hair, Mitch kissed each roller as it was fixed in place, and would also give her a soft peck on the shoulder now and again, or on her neck. I stood and watched and helped, transfixed, amazed not only by the speed and accuracy with which each roller went in, but more so by Mitch's kissing, and even more so by Shelley's reaction to it all. She sat there, smiling, her eyes shut, her bottom slightly forward on the chair, her legs slightly apart, one hand gently rubbing her breast, the other gently rubbing her crotch, sometimes using the towel, and sometimes moving the towel out of the way to get her hand inside her panties. Mitch finished setting, tied a blue roller net around Shelley's rollered head, then, still standing behind her, she placed her hands over Shelley's breasts and started rubbing them, then kneading them gently, tweaking the nipples, then going back to soft rubbing again. Shelley was obviously enjoying herself as her hand movement between her legs speeded up noticeably.

"Erika," whispered Mitch, motioning with her eyes towards Shelley's panties. "I think Shelley could use some help down there. Why don't you be a good girl and give Shelley a nicer time..."

I started to stiffen again, and went round and knelt in front of Shelley. I lifted her ankles and placed her feet on the edge of the chair, then moved her knees apart. She sighed. I then lifted up the edge of her towel, hooked my thumbs into the top of her panties and pulled them down to below her knees. She sighed again as I moved my head closer and closer to her vagina, gently kissing and blowing her inner thighs until at last I was within reach and my tongue could take over from her hand. I licked inside and outside, up and down, sometimes alternating the licking with gentle sucking. As I concentrated on her lower half, Mitch continued to rub Shelley's breasts, one hand absently stroking the front of her own skirt every now and then. Shelley's sighs increased, her body swaying gently to and fro. She reached up and placed her hands on my head, pushing the rollers into my scalp, pushing my head tighter into her, pushing my rollers tighter against my head as she stroked the silk of my scarf. The rollers hurt a bit, but the feeling it was causing below was sensational. Shelley's breaths were getting shorter and her movements faster. In between sighs and sharp breaths she spoke.

"Oh, good girls, you lovely girls, beautiful girls. Mitch, rub me harder, harder. Erika, keep going, be a good girl. You are a good girl. You like being a girl don't you? I like you being a girl. I like your willy. I like you being a girl with a willy. Do you like being a girl with a willy? I'd like your girlie-willy inside me. Would you like that? I bet you would...."

Then she came. Her back arched, her hips came forward, her thighs closed, almost crushing my head in the process. Despite the pain the rollers were now causing I kept going, licking then sucking then licking then sucking. Shelley let out a long,

"Y-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s................." as she finally relaxed back down and opened her eyes. I lifted my head up, looked up at Shelley, and smiled. Shelley took my head in her hands again, but gently this time, lifted my head up and kissed it, all over, kissing my scarf and eventually working down to my lips and kissing me there.

"Wow, thanks.." she said. "But you ain't half messed up your lippy!" she added.

I knelt down in front of Shelley again and gently wiped her dry with the edge of the towel before pulling her knickers back into place. I couldn't help myself commenting.

"These are really nice, really pretty." I said.

"Would you like them?" Shelley asked. "I think they would look great on you too."

"Yeah. OK, thanks." I said.

I stood up and Shelley stood in front of me. "Hitch your skirt up." she said.

I pulled up my apron and skirt to reveal my tights and knickers, and of course a huge bulge. Shelley pulled down my tights, and I lifted each foot in turn as she slipped my feet out of them. Then she pulled down my knickers, just a few inches at first.

"Yuck," she laughed. "You're all messy. Hey, Mitch, I think we need to clean her up a bit before she puts my knickers on."

Mitch laughed and came to join us.

"What, again?" Mitch said. "That's you second pair of knickers today. What are we going to do with you?"

I blushed. "I can think of something...." I said.

Before I knew it, Mitch was standing behind me holding up my skirt, and Shelley was kneeling in front of me gently wiping the end of my now aching member with the towel that had been around her shoulders. The towel was slightly damp, but that just seemed to heighten the pleasure for me. Shelley held willy gently with both hands, using the towel to both dry me and make me even wetter at the same time. I felt Mitch's hand move. Down behind me, then up inside my skirt, and down between my knickers and anus where she caressed me with her finger, gently rubbing around the rim whilst Shelley alternated between rubbing me and sucking me.

Mitch moved her finger another half-inch, I knew where this was going, and I wanted it. I wanted it badly. My mind wandered off again, what if it wasn't really her finger, what if was something else? What if I was to join the willy-lover-girls-club? Mitch teased me gently, Shelley rubbed me a bit harder, my mind wandered a bit further.

And then it came. It came in gushing torrents. Guilt. Overpowering guilt that I had never felt before, I was sure some part of me was determined to kill the other part of me in a wild rage. Suddenly I hated me with a vengeance. I hated who I was, where I was, how I was, what I was doing, what I wanted the girls to do.....

The rage in my head took over. "NOOOOOOOOOOO!" I screamed as I pushed Shelley away with so much force that she fell on her back.

"Erik, Erika, Honey......" Mitch said, looking first at Shelley and then at me as I ran for the door, pulling off my scarf and net, pulling out my rollers (and probably half of my hair) as I ran into the bathroom. I think Mitch and Shelley must have been in too much shock to follow. As I turned and shut the bathroom door I saw their faces, their mouths open in disbelief at how events had suddenly turned. How I had suddenly turned. I closed the door, ripped out the remaining curlers and grabbed whatever of my boy-clothes I could find. I couldn't find my t-shirt or boxers, but at least my jeans and bike gear were to hand. I tore off my skirt (Mitch's skirt), pulled on my jeans, my boots, my jacket, grabbed my crash-hat and ran as fast as I could out of the flat, all the time the voice of 'him' in my head screaming obscenities at me, berating me, hating me.

I flew down the stairs pulling on my crash helmet as I went. Within seconds the bike was revving up and I was away. Wanting to leave that place just to make 'him' in my head shut up. But wanting also to go back, to stay, to be 'me' a bit longer, to be girlie just that little bit longer. The voice, no - voices, more of them now, screamed at me, I screamed back at them.

"LEAVE ME ALONE!!!!!!!!!"

It was dark, it was raining again, I was drunk. I didn't see the forty-foot truck pulling out onto the main road. Everything went into slow-mode. I heard a scream, was it me or an onlooker? I heard the crunch. I felt nothing.

Except guilt.

EPILOGUE

And it was at that point of the tale when he died.

Oh, sorry, I should have mentioned. My name is Sue, I am a nurse in the intensive care unit at the hospital. When Erik was brought in on that wet Saturday night we knew he wouldn't make it. He was lucid, he could talk, he could even smile. But every other bit of his body was smashed to a pulp. His vital organs were rapidly giving up the ghost. He would be dead before morning.

My job was to make his last hours as comfortable as possible, so I sat with him as we hadn't managed to track down any of his family yet. He lay there, I sat, we talked. I know I shouldn't have done, but I was intrigued (and a little wet down below by now) so I asked him how come he was wearing rather pretty knickers and a bra when he was brought in? How come there were traces of make-up in the blood smeared across his face? How come his hair, though matted with blood, was in perfect little rolls, as if recently curled? He started to tell me his story. At first I was so excited I thought I would be disappearing off to the ladies to change my underwear. Then, as the story neared its end, I cried.

So, a day, an autumnal day in 1980. What should have been just another day in a young man's life. But also a strange day, the day that 'Erika' finally came about, and the day that Erika also died. And Erik died with her.

Did Erik kill Erika? Or did Erika kill Erik?

That, dear reader, only he/she knows. May they both rest in peace.

And I'm sure they will, but where can I find myself a little friend like Erik? I'm not bad at doing hair, need some practice though, so wouldn't it be nice to have a lovely boy-girl to practice on... Are there many like Erik/Erika out there? Time to go and find one I think.... But, in the meantime, I really must go and change my panties.

  

  

  

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