March of the Southern Belles

by Heidi-Jo McGillicuddy

Chapter Two

  

Clutching at my petticoats with my lavender-colored fingers, I prepared to squeeze my way through the door. Outside I could hear a continuous and entirely feminine murmur. As I stepped forward I felt Lisa's hoops pushing at my skirts from behind, and I quickly stepped forward, lest anybody see under my raised hoops and catch a glimpse of the lace and satin pantaloons that went all the way down to the top of my girlish slippers.

Although my dress was far too wide for the doorframe, a gentle squeeze was enough to allow me through, my hoops snapping back into place as I entered the slightly more spacious hallway--slightly being the operative word. Many of the other girls were already dressed and assembled, chit-chatting excitedly as they awaited further instructions from Gretchen, standing literally hoopskirt-to-hoopskirt in an ocean of chiffon. Some of the belles were wearing light green, others baby blue, others girlish pink from head to toe. At least one girl was wearing a lavender gown, identical to mine. I didn't recognize her at first underneath all over her feminine accessories, but when she turned and saw us, I recognized her voice. "Lisa, you did it!" she exclaimed.

It was Carrie, Lisa's best friend and co-worker. "Doesn't he look gorgeous?" Lisa squealed back.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" Carrie squealed back, and before I realized it, she was compulsively embracing me with her long, lavender gloves, our skirts compressing together. I dumbly reached around her and felt the shape of her trim waist through my satin gloves. "I can't believe it!" Carrie exclaimed.

Her outburst had caused enough of a commotion to attract the attention of the rest of the girls; almost in unison they craned their necks and absently adjusted their skirts in order to see what all the fuss was about.

Lisa pulled one of my gloved arms back and interlocked her yellow satin fingers with my own. "I saw him first, Carrie," she said, her tone mockingly stern.

I heard giggles from the other belles, as well as other snatches of conversation.

"That's Lisa's boyfriend," I heard one girl say.

"How did she talk him into it?" somebody asked.

"He looks better then me!"

"Oh my God!"

"Is he wearing the pantaloons and everything?"

Flustered, I smiled nervously and tried to find something to do with the arm that Lisa wasn't clutching. If I let it hang straight down, it fell into the folds of my dress, which somehow didn't seem right. I looked at the other girls, and noticed how all of them were keeping both of their elbows bent at their sides at about a ninety-degree angle, their gloved hands hovering at about the waist level of their petticoats. I looked down and put my hand in the same position, and noticed how when I let my wrist go limp while in this position, it looked somehow…appropriate.

"We could use him at the club!" Carrie was telling Lisa. "He'd make a beautiful hostess!"

"Don't joke about that," Lisa said. "His hours just got cut again."

"We need all the help we can get!" Carrie exclaimed.

"How would you like to be a hostess, sweetie?" Lisa asked.

"Ho or hostess?" I asked, trying to deflect the question. Lisa gave me a scolding look, but Carrie spoke up next.

"Does he have nice legs?" Carrie asked.

"Mhh-hmm," Lisa said, coyly, smiling demurely and fluttering her eyelids. I looked at her in wonderment as she did this, and she then looked back at me strangely. "What?" she asked.

"I don't know," I said. I felt very strange at that moment, to say the least, but before I could say anything else, I heard Gretchen's voice boom among the din. "LADIES, MAY I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION, PLEASE!"

We all fell silent, save for the persistent rustle of crinoline.

"Thank you," Gretchen said. "As you have all probably noticed, we have found a replacement for Erica. Please warmly welcome her."

Welcome her? I thought, but I saw a lovely show of satin fingers fluttering in my direction. I smiled and waved back.

There was not a lot of room in the hallway. My hoops kept getting nudged this way and that. As Gretchen delivered her last-minute instructions concerning the forthcoming parade, I licked my lips nervously and tasted the unfamiliar lipstick that Lisa had put on them. Would my wig stay on straight for the duration of the parade? This ruffled ladies hat was the largest item I'd ever worn on my head, and fear of knocking its floppy brim askew impeded me from any sudden head movements.

I felt Lisa's fingers digging into my wrist through my gloves. "Pay attention," she whispered. Gretchen was now demonstrating the proper way for a southern belle to wave to parade goers, and the other girls were raising their hands in imitation of her, revealing their delicate glove buttons. I tried to copy her as well, keeping my elbow close to my waist and moving my hand from side to side rather than up and down, but Lisa nudged me. "Left hand," she hissed.

"Why?" I whispered back.

"You'll be carrying a parasol in your right hand," she said.

Of course, I remembered. Good lord, how could I forget? And of course, it would be lavender and trimmed with still more copious ruffling. I pressed my satin-covered legs together underneath my hoopskirt and shuddered.

And waved.

"I want to see smiles!" Gretchen announced.

I looked around and saw smiles. Some of the other belles were even smiling at me. I waved girlishly at them and smiled back.

"This is your last chance to powder your noses, ladies," Gretchen told them. "We need to be lined up and ready to go at nine o'clock sharp." With that, she suddenly turned her back on us and walked away.

"Do you need to powder your nose, sweetie?" Lisa asked me.

I crossed my eyes and tried to look at it. "You tell me."

"She means go to the bathroom."

"Oh," I said. I looked around. Many of the other girls were already halfway up the hall. "I did have half a cup of coffee earlier."

"You'd better take care of business then," Lisa said. "Luckily for you, you won't need to wait in line."

"I won't?"

Carrie was listening to this. "Oh, I wish I could see him trying to pee in his hoopskirt!"

I turned the logistics of the activity over in my mind, and suddenly had a new appreciation for what these girls were putting themselves through to dress like this--it would probably be relatively easy for me to void my bladder in this outfit, and I was very happy I didn't need to…er…sit on the toilet or anything. Or stand in line, for that matter.

All this talk about urinating, of course, didn't help me to not want to do it. How long was the parade route, anyway? Then I remembered--after the parade, where would I be? Surely the men's room here would be safer than any public men's room at the other end of the parade route…There was so much I didn't know about what lay ahead for me this day.

"Take your gloves off first," Lisa said.

I gingerly pulled at the fingertips of my gloves. "He looks so ladylike when he does that!" Carrie gushed as I slid the gloves off my arms.

"Try not to wrinkle them," Lisa said. "Did you want me to hold them?"

"I can handle them," I said. They hung limply against my gown.

"He needs a purse!" Carrie exclaimed.

I looked at the door marked "MEN", which was right next to another door where a half-dozen girls in identical antebellum costumes were semi-patiently lined up, and took a deep breath. They looked at me somewhat jealously as I, still clutching my gloves, pushed myself, and my skirts, through the door and into the men's room.

The bathroom was empty, of course. This was the most breathing room I'd gotten in several minutes, and it contained the first large mirror I'd seem since putting on the dress. Catching a glimpse of myself, I gasped. Then I slowly walked towards the mirror, my reflection gliding towards me from the opposite direction, the ruffles on my skirt bouncing slightly.

My face was smooth, clean, pale. With the floppy lavender bow tied girlishly under my chin, my soft bangs and my bright red lips, the masculine features of my face were almost hidden. The row of ruffles across my chest had a decidedly feminine slant to them (thanks mostly to my rolled-up socks) and my shoulders looked narrow and delicate. I felt a stirring down below that was not being caused by my bladder.

I carefully draped my gloves across the towel dispenser, turned around and approached a urinal with added urgency. I pulled up my dress, hoop by hoop, and looked down at my lavender legs with their lacy ankle trim and ruffled petticoat backdrop. I'd never seen a girl in undergarments so frilly, although I'd certainly wished I'd had. Lisa was right; for years I'd always enjoyed seeing these girls in their pretty dresses during the Heritage Day parade, and my desire to see Lisa in all of this 19^th century finery was possibly based upon something less than G-rated.

I pulled down the elastic waistband of my pantaloons. The caress of the silky bloomers against my groin was exquisite. As I stood there at the urinal, what I did next was the most unladylike thing that I would do all day. I'd rather not say exactly what happened, other than to say that after it happened, I stood there stupidly for at least a full minute, holding up my skirts and hoops with one hand and holding down the waistband of my pantaloons with the other hand, breathing heavily, before I was able to relax long enough for the urine to begin to flow through my now, significantly more subdued, manhood, being extraordinarily careful to not splatter anything on my beautiful gown.

My beautiful gown. For a few hours, anyway. What a comforting thought.

When I was positive that I was completely finished at the urinal, I pulled up my pantaloons, my exhausted little winky grateful to return to the luxurious satin confines. I then stepped backwards as I flushed the urinal, dropped my hoops, and turned back around to look at myself in the mirror again. I wished for a full-length mirror, as in this one I was unable to see most of my endlessly flowing skirts, but I noticed now how the precious little puffy shoulders of the gown rose a full three inches, perfectly framing either side of my face, and I took another step towards the mirror, fascinated by all of the exquisite detailing that I kept discovering, enthralled by how my dress moved as I did. I took my gloves back from where I'd left them hanging, and watched myself in the mirror as I slowly drew them back up my arms and over my elbows.

"Hey sweetie," I heard a familiar voice say softly, breaking me from my reverie. It was Lisa. "Do you like what you see?"

"You're not supposed to be in the men's room," I said, smiling.

"I wasn't sure if you needed any help," she said. "Did you pee?"

I nodded shyly.

"You look beautiful," she said.

"So do you," I said, and she did. In her bright yellow ruffles, she looked as wholesome and as beautiful as a girl can get, and suddenly I had to kiss her right then and there. Even wearing a ball gown, my love for her suddenly felt no barriers, and I took her in my arms and kissed her gently on the lips, so as to not smear our lipstick or knock our hats askew. Even though I had just reached some sort of literal sexual climax only moments before, the glowing warmth I felt right then was far more lingering and profound.

She reached up with her yellow gloves and adjusted my bangs. "We've got a lot of walking ahead of us," she said.

"I feel as though I'm walking on air right now," I said.

"Well," she said, smirking naughtily, "you might not be saying that later this afternoon."

I shrugged, removed my fingers from her waist, and turned to look at myself one last time. I doubted just then that it was possible to feel any more exquisite than I did just then. I smoothed my gown over my hoops, more for the pleasure of doing so than to smooth any wrinkles, and finally tore myself from the mirror and from Lisa. I glided over to the door and gallantly pulled it open with my satin covered hands, and she curtsied just before she squeezed past my hoops and back out into the hall.

"Lisa!" Gretchen called. "There you are. You're going to be in row two." She handed Lisa a card with a large number "2" printed on it. "You'd better join your row.

I watched as Lisa quickly gathered up her skirts and made her way out of the building to the parking lot, then stood there stupidly as Gretchen seemed to not notice me as she intently studied a clipboard that she was holding.

"What about me?" I asked, trying to sound feminine, even adding a slight drawl to my speaking voice.

"Hmm?" Gretchen said absently. She looked up. "Oh," she said, looking down at her clipboard before she did something completely unexpected: She looked back up at me again and actually smiled. I nervously touched my bosom in response.

"Enjoy yourself out there today," she said, sounding suddenly warm. "Remember--it's fun to be a girl."

I nodded, smiling. Blushing, almost. Then Gretchen's smile vanished as she handed me a card with the number "6" printed on it. "Go outside and find the three girls who are also in your row. And do not leave without your parasol!"

Outside, I thought. Outside, as in 'in public'. My heart rate began to increase. Clutching my card, I took a deep breath and started for the front door.

Walking in hoopskirts wasn't actually difficult at all; if I needed to pick up the pace, it helped a little bit to lift up the front of my dress, but my legs were able to pretty much move under my skirts unimpeded. Doors and doorways, however continued to be a nuisance, especially doors like these that were designed to swing shut on their own, obviously invented after hoopskirts went out of fashion. I also wasn't sure about pushing open the door using my gloves, as I didn't want to soil them and I had no idea how many other grubby hands had pushed through those same doors since they had last been properly cleaned.

I was certainly becoming quite prissy!

Luckily, Gretchen had apparently thought of everything. Before I got within five feet of the door, a young man sprang to his feet and immediately pulled open the door for me, standing back to allow all of my petticoats past. Seeing another male so soon after leaving this hyperfeminine cocoon made me feel even more special; he was wearing a drab polo and khakis and nearly faded into the wall as a result. He looked at me, however, only with respect and acceptance. Could he tell? I couldn't tell if he could tell. He just smiled at me sincerely and I smiled back and whispered 'thank you', to which he gently replied, "You're welcome, miss!" I smiled some more upon hearing that, and if I felt soft and pretty before, I felt absolutely glorious as I emerged from the building into a beautiful spring morning, the polite young man keeping the door open for me until after the last of my voluminous petticoats were clear of the doorway.

It was easy to see where I needed to be; the large phalanx of multicolored southern belles assembled in the parking lot were probably visible from space. I held up my number, and was directed to three other young ladies also holding sixes. They introduced themselves to me; the belle in pink was Claire, the belle in baby blue was Brandi, and the belle in light green was Laura.

"And what's your name?" Brandi asked, winking.

"I'm Lisa's boyfriend," I said, and everybody giggled.

"But you need a girls name!"

I was stumped. "I guess I do," I said finally.

There wasn't much time for girl talk, however. One of Gretchen's assistants came by then and lined us all into columns--I was put in the middle, between Laura and Claire. Brandi was on the far left.

The girl in front of me was wearing orange. She turned around and smiled. "You look very pretty," she said.

"So do you," I said, and I meant it. All of these young ladies looked about as beautiful as a young lady could possibly look, as far as I was concerned. I leaned slightly to my left to try to catch Lisa's eye, four rows up. She saw me and waved; she already had her parasol cradled in her right arm, twirling the open canopy over her shoulder.

"Psst," Laura said to me, and I turned to see another of Gretchen's assistants holding a lavender parasol out to me. I accepted it, stopping to study the delicate ruffle-trimmed cap of the umbrella. It looked perfectly impractical--it really didn't offer much more protection from the elements than my hat did--but as I cradled it in my gloved right arm like all the other belles did, I felt absolutely beautiful.

I suddenly realized that I was more or less trapped at this point. All of my male clothing--indeed my ID, my cash, my keys--was stuffed in the corner of a dressing room in a building that I was about to walk away from, with no idea when (or how) I would return. This costume, this gown, whatever else you might call it, would be the only clothing available to me for the indefinite future.

Bolting at this point would be problematic, as well. I was surrounded by girls in hoopskirts. Even if I did try and squeeze through, would they try to stop me? And where would I go? Dressed this way, I really couldn't possibly belong anyplace else.

I had hardly any time to ponder this however. Suddenly the columns of belles ahead of um were beginning to move forward, out of the parking lot. I concentrated on the girl ahead of me , on the orange bow she was wearing at the small of her back, and when she began to walk, so did I, along with the other girls in my row, and then the row behind us was moving as well.

The parade had begun. Ahead of me, I could hear the din of the crowd as they spotted the first row of girls exiting the parking lot and turning left to go up Main Street. The route, I knew, lasted from 2nd Street West all the way up to 20th Street East.

"Stay in your rows, ladies!" I heard Gretchen calling from somewhere.

As I stepped up across the slight grade of the parking lot, I lifted the front of my dress to avoid tripping on it, before turning left onto Main Street with the rest of the belles in my row. Then I smiled, raising one gloved arm and revealing the lovely little lavender buttons at my wrist, and began to wave at the assembled parade watchers…

TO BE CONTINUED

  

  

  

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© 2008 by Heidi-Jo McGillicuddy. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without the express written consent of StorySite and the copyright holder.