March of the Southern Belles

by Heidi-Jo McGillicuddy

Chapter Three

  

The parade had begun. "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.

What had happened to me this morning, anyway? It was all a delicious blur… just a few short hours ago I had rolled out of bed, hopped into the shower, sucked down a cup of coffee, yanked on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and dropped off my girlfriend Lisa at the local community center so she could get dressed up in antebellum finery to march in the annual Heritage Day Parade.

It was a day off for me--I didn't even bother shaving. My plans for this morning hadn't really proceeded past the idea that I would need to somehow traverse the crowds of parade watchers quickly enough to be able to keep up with Lisa and the rest of the Southern Belles in order to take plenty of photographs.

Well…I had figured out a way to keep up with Lisa and her sisters, all right--and all without having to fight the crowds. As I absently put my hand down on my hoopskirt in an effort to keep it from swaying too much as I walked, I realized that I was putting a greater and greater distance between myself and my personal belongings, specifically my male belongings--my pants, t-shirt, sneakers, keys and wallet, everything male I owned was piled up in a dressing room back in the community center.

Everything except for my tube socks, that is. I had those with me, although not on my feet. Lisa had rolled them up and wedged them into the bra cups of the tight corset I was wearing. Looking down at myself, however, they now more closely resembled a feminine swell of bosom underneath a row of ruffling that stretched across my bodice.

I raised my lavender-gloved arm again, looked over at the throng of people lining Main Street, and waved at them, being sure to wave my hand from side-to-side rather than up-and-down. Did any of them suspect I was a boy? If they did, I saw no surprised glances or double takes that would seem to indicate it. Mostly I just saw smiling faces; many of the women in the crowd were waving back to us, their daughters jumping up and down with glee at our pretty gowns, and the men, especially the young men, simply seemed to be gawking at us. I knew what they were thinking; every year, I found this explosive display of femininity so powerful that I could only gape and marvel at the young women who projected it so effortlessly. I know the thought had never occurred to me in years past that possibly there was a man in their midst.

Luckily, it was a beautiful spring morning. As we continued walking, I was grateful that there wasn't a cloud in the sky, as I doubted that the little parasol I had cradled across my right arm would be able to withstand even a modest drizzle. The summer humidity had yet to arrive, and there was just enough breeze to keep me cool as I continued up Main Street, waving and smiling all the way.

Of course, part of the charm of hoopskirts is their impracticality, and the logistics of three dozen of them unfurled in formation occasionally caused some interesting distractions. Each of our dresses was wide enough to where I could look down at the streets and see how we were each taking up an entire lane of traffic--believe me, those petticoats easily stretched from one set of lines painted on the pavement all the way over to the next.

Underneath my gown, I was wearing a pair of soft, satin, lavender pantaloons that matched my dress. Every time I needed to pick up my skirts for some reason, my ankles were clearly visible, ringed with three rings of lace ruffles along with the flat-soled women's slippers I was wearing. If wearing a ball gown wasn't girlish enough, if wearing a wig and makeup wasn't girlish enough, if wearing long satin gloves that went up past my elbows with little buttons at the wrist wasn't girlish enough, well…the pantaloons definitely were the icing on the cake, these frilly, long girlish pants that pretty much could only be worn underneath a hoopskirt--they really served no other purpose, it seemed, other than to offer an additional prissy layer of feminine modesty to a southern belle with a sudden need to publicly adjust her hoops.

And the hoops did tend to require constant attention. At this point, I had been in my hoopskirt for well over an hour, quickly learning their dos and don'ts out of sheer necessity. Sitting was tricky, although not impossible; going through doors usually required a gentle squeezing of hoops, and it was important to make sure all of my skirts were through the door before it closed behind me. I had yet to walk up a flight of stairs, although I knew that even a slight grade required a girl to clutch one of her hoops and lift it--on a flat surface, the gowns, even with all of their material stretched across those five-foot hoops, still reached the ground.

The hoops also mandated that I keep my elbows bent; letting my arms hang down loosely only left my hands awkwardly buried in my skirts. Fortunately, keeping my lavender parasol in the crook of my right arm, the frilly open canopy behind me, kept that arm occupied. As for my left hand, when I wasn't waving at the masses, I tended to just let my hover near my waistline, my hand hanging limply at the wrist, instead of swinging my arms like, well, a man.

The fact of the matter was that wearing all of that female paraphernalia forced me to move in a more feminine manner. Walking with smaller, quicker steps proved more hoopskirt-friendly, as too much forward momentum tended to cause the hoops to dip to the front. If I needed to pick up my pace, however, I then needed to lift my dress in order to quickly catch up with her, knowing that I was exposing my prissy, lacey-ankled bloomers to dozens of spectators.

And yet, for all of that, I found myself in a state of sheer bliss. The wholly sensual pleasure of wearing and displaying such feminine splendor was profound. As we continued up Main Street, I began to feel slightly out of breath, but that was due mostly to the corset I was wearing, and I found that the enhanced feminine posture it provided me more than made up for any discomfort. I felt an intense tingling from my satin-tipped fingers all the way down to my slippers, and I realized as I marched that I owed it all to my girlfriend, Lisa, who was three rows ahead of me. It was she who had helped me with my wig and makeup and tied the hat ribbon under my chin into a fetching floppy bow.

Conniving to dress me as a Southern Belle and slip into the parade was entirely her doing. It seemed as though the longer I knew her, the more she seemed to unlock within me. I had nagged her to sign up for the parade, knowing that there was no way anybody would every turn away her natural, warm beauty from such an event, but also because I enjoyed the fantasy of her wearing all of the accoutrements of a Southern Belle. If I loved her, it was because she apparently seemed to somehow understand that in participating in the parade would allow me to not only live out one of my unspoken fantasies through her, but also because she was the kind of girl who enjoyed being a girl, who enjoyed expressing herself as a female, with all of the joys and experiences that went with it.

This is what attracted me to her; if she did wear pants, they were typically something cute and cropped. She never wore sweats, and although she wasn't afraid to wear something that flattered her curves, she was never whorish in her attire. Indeed, she worked in a private club as a hostess, which required her to wear a skirt, hose and heels every day, which she did without complaint, along with a soft, cream-colored uniform blouse that I just loved. It had a high neck, yet was just sheer enough to reveal just a hint of her camisole or bra--provided she was not wearing the peach uniform jacket that matched her skirt. I thought she looked marvelous in the suit--I loved the way she felt, all soft and silky to the touch whenever I hugged her after a long day. I also enjoyed it whenever she left for work with her hair swept up into a glamorous twist, away from her face and neck and revealing the delicate little buttons on the back of her blouse collar; sometimes she would ask me to help her button all of those back buttons in the morning, and after putting on all of her clothing and makeup, I was always jealous at the womanly satisfaction that she projected when she would sit at her vanity and indulge herself with one last spray of perfume before putting on her final accessory--a gorgeous string of pearls that had belonged to her grandmother, and looked even more beautiful when delicately draped against the bodice of her soft, ivory blouse.

And of course, now, as she marched up in the second row, she looked effortlessly radiant as she waved at the adoring crowd, not needing to adjust her skirts as they instinctively accommodated her femininity (unlike me--I was becoming more feminine to accommodate my skirts!) as she flashed the crowd her brilliantly beautiful smile and waved girlishly with a yellow-gloved hand, with the pretty little yellow buttons at her wrist.

I snapped out of my reverie as I bumped the girl in front of me with my hoopskirt yet again, which, of course, caused the girl behind me to bump me with hers as well. Then the girl ahead of me suddenly picked up her skirts and scurried to catch up with the rest of her row; I giggled, lifted my hoops, and did the same. Then I glanced over at the crowd and saw a sea of smiling faces and even a few cameras. They had probably gotten pictures of my pantaloons just then. I smiled back and waved with my left arm, my right arm still holding the parasol, its frilly canopy resting on top of the back of my hoopskirt. I looked across at the other side of Main Street and saw even more smiling faces, and I smiled back some more and waved in that direction as well.

I could have marched in my ball gown all day, but alas, as we grew closer and closer to 20th street and the end of the parade route, I knew that one of the most thrilling experiences of my life was dwindling away. I kept waving, however, determined to enjoy every last minute of the occasion, and the ever-present crowds smiled and waved back. I looked at all of my sisters around me, and they all looked so breathtakingly beautiful and feminine…as I raised my arm to wave at a cluster of little girls, I saw my own puffy little shoulder sleeve raise in the air…I looked down at myself, at my wide lavender skirts with all of the fluttering…I clutched my pretty parasol and felt the satin on my legs…and suddenly I was feeling very…um…needy. Lisa was only a few yards away, but dressed as we both were, I could only fantasize about her for the time being…it seemed as though it had only been a few short minutes since I had been in the men's room, my skirts fortunately hoisted high…

And then, alas, the parade ended. For the Southern Belles, anyway. Behind us, the bands were still playing and the floats presumably still rolling past the spectators, but as we went under the traffic light at the intersection of 20th and Main, Gretchen was standing in front of the police cars blocking the end of the parade route, frantically waving her arms, directing us over to the park off to the left.

Our carefully assembled, color-coordinated formation began to fall apart as we turned. Some of the girls sighed with relief, apparently with fatigue. "How did you enjoy that?" Brandi, one of the girls in my row, asked me.

"I loved it!" I exclaimed, and she just laughed.

"I'm just glad it's over with," she said, sounding weary.

Not me, I thought, as I lifted my dress to step up on the curb, and then I saw Lisa. She was already standing in the grass on the other side of the sidewalk, grinning broadly at me and twirling her yellow parasol. Still clutching my skirts, I ran over to her and embraced her, our hoopskirts askew as I held her as tightly as I could.

"Kiss me," she said.

"In front of everybody?" We were outdoors, after all.

"Oh, fiddle dee dee!" she cried, and suddenly planted her lips on mine. Below all of my petticoats, my pantaloons stirred some more.

"I see London, I see France…" I heard one of the girls, probably Carrie, singing. I looked down at my dress, pressed snugly against Lisa, and realized that my hoops had lifted up in the back. How far, I didn't know, but I loosened my embrace of Lisa and stepped back.

"I do declare," she announced, "that I need to rest a spell!"

I looked around. There were several park benches, but all of them were already being used by other Southern Belles, and each bench barely accommodated two hoopskirts.

Lisa was pulling my gloved hand with her own, and I followed her over to a patch of bright green grass. I watched as she sank to the ground, her dress gracefully collapsing in a perfect circle around her. I bent at the knees as well, and as I lowered myself, I enjoyed the breeze as the air trapped under my skirt slowly eased through the outer edges of my petticoat, and the grass felt cool against my legs through the satin pantaloons.

"How do I look?" I asked. "Is my makeup holding up?"

"Your nose needs powdering," Lisa said, pulling off her left glove.

"Literally?"

She laughed. "You look radiant," she told me.

"So do you," I said.

She dropped her eyes to the ground and blushed. "Thank you," she said. I watched as she slowly peeled off her other glove, and then coyly reached down into her cleavage and pulled out a compact. "Lean this way," she said. I did, and she dabbed at my nose and cheeks with some powder. "Much better," she said.

"Thank you," I said.

"One more thing," she said, producing a tube of lipstick. "Hold still," she said, before expertly tracing it around my lips. "There," she said.

"Thank you," I said. "This has been one of the best days of my life."

"You're welcome, sweetie," she said.

"How did you know?" I asked.

She giggled. "Oh, a girl can just tell," she said, and winked.

"I can't wait to get you home," I said.

She opened her mouth and raised a hand to it in mock horror. Then she smiled naughtily again. "Don't you want to get out of those petticoats, first?"

"Maybe," I said.

"Maybe," she said.

"Maybe not," I said.

She giggled.

"How are we going to get back to the community center, anyway?" I asked.

"They're chartering a couple of buses."

"You don't think any less of me when you've seen me dressed like this?" I asked.

She laughed and shook her head. "I think more of you than ever, sweetie," she said. The sunshine splashed across her face at that moment, and with that pretty yellow hat and the ribbon tied below her chin, she was the most beautiful woman in the world. "You make a beautiful Southern Belle," she said.

"THE BUS IS LEAVING, LADIES!" Gretchen was calling.

"Yikes," Lisa and I said in unison. As quickly as we could, we both got back onto our feet, picked up our parasols and attempted to straighten our skirts back out over our hoops.

"UNLESS YOU LADIES WANT TO WALK BACK!" Gretchen shouted.

I wouldn't have minded walking back, but for Lisa's sake, I picked up my skirts and followed her over to the waiting buses. The rest of the girls were already on the buses, watching us, probably giggling at my pantaloons.

"I'll need those parasols," Gretchen said, holding out her hand.

Lisa handed hers to Gretchen, and so did I. Reluctantly. She gave me a sympathetic look and said "There's two seats left in there," pointing to the bus.

"Ladies first," I said to Lisa, and smiling, she lifted her skirts and pushed her way though the narrow door and up the steps onto the bus. I followed, and as I lifted my skirts, I noticed the driver idly staring at my legs with an odd half-smile on his face, not even looking at my face.

Lisa had found a seat near to the center of the bus and her skirts were ballooned around her, but I was able to scrunch mine in next to her as the bus pulled away from the park.

"I can't wait to get back to that dressing room," I said to her quietly.

She lifted an eyebrow. "Why? You can't wait to take off your pretty gown?"

"Not that," I said. "I can't want to be alone with you." My voice dropped to a whisper. "I'm about to explode," I told her quietly.

Her mouth silently formed an O shape, before she licked her lips carefully and whispered back, "Sweetie?"

"What?"

"I need to tell you something?"

"What?" I asked again.

"We're not going back to the community center."

"We're not?"

She shook her head. "Not yet," she said. "Right now they're taking us over to the Ladies' Auxiliary for the annual Brunch with the Belles. Remember?"

Suddenly, I did. If I had written it off before, it was because the brunch was an event to which I had not been invited. Apparently my participation in the parade had changed all of that…

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.