The Pageboy

by

Tamara Segunda

 

How we got started, and where this all came from are surely the central questions that every cross-dressing male has pondered. In my case, I'd thought about it for years, usually harking back to the first time I'd tried on a pair of my mother's panties when I was about 13 and wondering what could have made me do such a thing, anyway. But it was only much later that a pair of old photos reactivated a suppressed memory and elicited an astonished OMG as the recognition dawned. You see, my first experience as a cross-dresser occurred when I was not quite eight years old, and didn't involve cross-dressing at all. Well, not exactly, anyway. Guess I'd better explain.

Both of my parents worked (unusual in the 1950s). My mom had taken a job when I started kindergarten, so my two older sisters took care of me after school. I remember several occasions when we played "house" and they dressed me up as "the little girl." But it was no big deal, and just as often I was the little boy or, rarely, the daddy. Whenever we played "doctor," though, I was *always* the patient. Hah! Nasty little girls, my sisters. But all of that was just playing, and I don't recall ever having any special feelings about it.

At that time, my mom's best friend was a big, redheaded woman named Irene DuFay, and actually our whole family was friends with all of the DuFays. Irene was a nurse, and she was some kind of a big wheel at the school of nursing that was affiliated with the local Catholic hospital. That year, as spring approached, Irene had personally taken charge of planning the ceremonies for that year's graduating class at the nursing school. The graduation would take place at the biggest Catholic church in that small city, and Irene had got a commitment from the Bishop to come from the State Capital to confer the diplomas and nursing caps on the graduates. It probably sounds kind of hokey to the modern reader, but in those days there was a lot of true pomp and circumstance surrounding a nursing graduation.

One of the highlights of the ritual was the procession into the church. First would come the local clergy (priests and acolytes), then the nuns from the hospital, then the graduates, and finally His Excellency the Bishop. The Bishop would be preceded by a flower girl and followed by a pageboy who would carry the train of the Bishop's long cloak (his 'cope'). Irene's daughter, Karen (same age as me), was to be the flower girl, and Karen's brother Donnie, who by then was almost ten, was to be the pageboy.

About a month before the graduation, Donnie fell off the DuFay's roof and broke his leg in two places. To make a long story short, there was no way Donnie could be the pageboy, so Irene talked to my mom, and I was drafted for the position. The pageboy had to wear a special costume which had already arrived, and since I was somewhat smaller than Donnie, it would need fairly major alterations. One Saturday morning, Irene picked up my mom and me and we all went to the convent where the nuns lived. About all I remember about that day is standing in my winter underwear (long johns) on a little stool in the convent's sewing room while a pair of elderly nuns, a master tailor and her seamstress assistant, made what seemed like hundreds of measurements of my arms, legs, back, neck and everything else, so they could do the necessary alterations.

After that, I pretty much forgot about the whole thing for weeks. Then, the day before the graduation. Irene took Karen and me to the church where we went through a rehearsal of what we would both do at the graduation ceremony the next evening. Then, we went back to the DuFay house where I was to spend the night.

I remember being a little embarrassed when Irene had Karen and I take our baths together. At home, since I was the only boy, I always bathed by myself, but including me, there were four kids at the DuFay house, plus Irene and Mr. DuFay -- and one bathtub. Anyway, like a lot of things in those days, it was no big deal and we both had a glorious time playing with the lather when Irene came in and washed Karen's hair and mine too.

A little later, we all sat in the living room in our pajamas and robes. Karen sat on the floor at her mom's feet, while Irene sat on the couch and set Karen's pretty red hair in pin curls. I'd seen my own mother do the same thing for my sisters, and I distinctly remember thinking how nice it must be for them, and wishing that my mom would put up my hair like that. I didn't usually get a lot of physical contact from either of my parents (my dad had definite ideas about that), so just the thought of my mother touching me in the loving way that she did my sisters, and that Irene did Karen, kind of gave me an empty feeling at the pit of my stomach. Anyway, my first surprise came when Irene finished with Karen's hair and turned to me. "Okay, Barry, you're next."

Even though I'd wished for it, I was horrified that Irene might really be considering giving me a girl's hair-do. I was too well behaved to protest, but she must have seen a look in my eyes, as she told me not to worry, that she was just going to do a couple of little things so I would look extra handsome tomorrow for the graduation. I sat quietly as she brushed my hair, put some kind of sweet-smelling goop on it, and then rolled it up onto the little metal curlers that they used in those days. She finished by adding a few bobby-pinned curls at both of my temples. By the time she covered the whole thing with a hair net, I was literally shivvering with excitement. I kept waiting for Donnie to say something or laugh at me, but he acted as if it was nothing. Maybe it was nothing in *his* house, but if the kids from my neighborhood ever saw me, I knew I'd never hear the last of it. And don't even *think* of what would happen if my dad saw me like that. I was glad then that our house was almost three miles away. Right after that, Karen and I went to bed. She had bunk beds and I got to sleep in the top bed. We talked and laughed for a while and by the time we both fell asleep, I'd completely forgot about what had been done to my hair.

The next morning, Irene woke Karen and me before dawn. We would go to the 6:30 Mass, she said, as she had so much to do to get ready for the graduation, still more than 12 hours away. I was shocked when she told us we would have to leave our hair up so it wouldn't be ruined for the ceremony. She tied a scarf on Karen's head, and another on mine. I asked Irene if it would be a sin for me to have my head covered in church, since only girls were allowed to do that, but she said it would be okay this time because we had a good reason for it. Nonetheless, I was glad that the 6:30 Mass wasn't crowded, and there was no one there that I knew.

After Mass, we went back to the DuFays and had breakfast, and Mr. DuFay took Donnie, crutches and all, over to pick up my dad as the three of them would be spending the day fishing in the nearby mountains. At the same time Irene left for several hours to attend to the "million things" she had to supervise for the graduation. Karen and I were warned not to get dirty or even to play outside, and Karen's 14-year-old sister, Joan, was left in charge. With most of the really fun stuff off limits, Karen and I spent the morning playing Parcheesi and the early afternoon fooling with this neat doll house that she had.

Finally Irene came back, and this time she had my mom with her. Time to get ready -- Karen first.

The three of them disappeared into Irene's room and closed the door. After a few minutes, I could hear Karen calling to me to come and see. When I went into her parents' bedroom, Karen was standing on a little bench while Irene smoothed out the skirt on the dress she was wearing. Karen was so excited, she literally could not hold still. As she bounced up and down on the bench, my mom was doing her best to comb out Karen's hair and coax her new curls into place. She was beautiful. The dress seemed to be made almost entirely of shiny white satin on the bottom half with lots of lace and little pearl-looking things on the top half. With a mischievous laugh, Karen lifted the hem of her dress to reveal swishy layers of petticoats in taffeta and lace. Around her waist was a wide, gold sash tied into an impressive bow at the back. But this was no First Communion outfit or little-girl party dress. Karen looked to me like a princess -- a grown-up one. She had on long stockings that were white, but that you could still see through them, and white patent leather shoes with what must have been her first-ever heels (albeit they were less than an inch in height).

"Lillian," Irene told my mom, "if you'll finish up Karen, I'll take Barry and get him started." With that, she took my hand and led me into the brightly lit white-tile bathroom.

From this point, I must confess that while I do now have a pretty clear memory of that day and all that went into it, the precise details of what we wore and how we looked are mostly based on two old black-and-white photos. That's why I can't tell you what sort of underwear, if any, I wore that day. I'm quite sure it wasn't my usual J.C. Penney Towncraft briefs, as they would certainly have shown. What I do know is that I was wearing a pair of the same kind of long, white hose that Karen wore, and while I can't imagine wearing an actual garter belt, I clearly recall Irene hooking the tops of the hose to garters. I can only surmise that they -- the garters -- were sewn into whatever undergarments I was wearing.

Almost everything else was satin -- smooth, shiny, white. I didn't know the name of it, but I knew it was the same kind of stuff that my mom's slips were made of, and that I had always, always loved to touch. I don't know if any of you are old enough to have seen it, but there was a famous 1930s film noir scene where the actress Joan Crawford is standing in a darkened room wearing a lingerie-style satin nightgown. The light from an open door falls just below her face and reflects brightly off the shimmery surface of her silky, satin-covered bosom. Even as a small boy, I loved that picture, and I imagined that being married meant that you got to sleep with someone who was wearing a gown like that one.

On the other hand, I was a smart kid; smart enough to know that pretty clothes were for ladies and rich girls, and that silks, satins, and lace were not the sort of things that a boy would ever,ever wear. I don't believe that the possibility of actually wearing such inappropriate, not to say taboo, clothes had ever crossed my mind. To say I was stunned would be a gross understatement.

In the fiction I've read, this is about the point where the little boy wails in protest and is then forced into the sissy clothes on pain of physical punishment, but that didn't happen in my case. All that happened to me was that I lost my voice -- completely. My breath was literally taken away with the excitement of the thing. To not only put on such, clothes, but to actually have *permission*! I do remember that one motivation I had for keeping quiet was the fear that someone might guess how much I loved it. It also helped that I was sure no one I knew would ever see me. But with or without permission, I was deliciously aware that what I was doing was wrong. I probably seemed like a kid version of a zombie, but I was certain that I would instantly do anything and everything that Irene DuFay might ask of me.

Once I had my underwear and hose on, Irene produced the shirt. It was heavy white satin with two buttons just above the tummy that looked like pearls. Starting at the middle of the chest, there was a lavish ruffle that ran up to the collar, which was formed out of another ruffle of the same material that wrapped around my neck and fastened at the back. A small white bow was attached at my throat, and another one at the base of the chest ruffle. The sleeves were made of a lighter material, also silky and white, but nearly transparent. At the end of each sleeve was a big poofy cuff of the same ruffled material as the collar.

The pants were white satin knickers. No, I don't mean the knickers that the Brits call panties, bur rather knickerbockers, puffy balloon-legged trousers that came down to just below the knee. They were a heavier material, quite opaque, and were held up by a drawstring at the waist and laces at the back. The legs were held in place below the knee with heavy velvet ribbon sewn into the cuffs and tied snugly with the bows positioned on the outside of either leg.

Separating the pants from the shirt was a wide sash of shimmery gold satin, the same gold taffeta that Karen's was made of, except that mine was pleated like a cummerbund, and instead of a big poofy bow, it was simply tied at the back with ribbons sewn onto each end.

The shoes were similar to Karen's but Irene said they were boys' shoes because they didn't have raised heels. That meant that Karen would actually be taller than I was, but at least they were boys' shoes. They were white patent leather, and at this distance, it's pretty obvious that they were standard Mary Janes that Irene must have matched to my shoe size, but they certainly came from the girls' department of some local department store.

Finally Irene helped me into the coat. It was a cutaway style, short waisted at the front, but sweeping into a long swallowtail at the back, covering my rear and reaching halfway to my knees. It was a heavy material, with the outside covered with white satin overlain with lace. The inside was lined with gold silk, and the lapels and collar were overlain with lavish gobs of eyelet lace. There were no buttons or other closures, as the coat was designed to be worn open to show off the blouse -- I mean shirt -- underneath.

I loved how it all felt and couldn't wait to see myself in the full-length mirror on the back of Irene's bedroom door. Before I could run to see, though, my mother came in to join us. I don't recall what she said, but I do remember both women gushing over how nice I looked. I blushed like crazy, but never until then had I realized that a blush could be a source of warmth and pleasure rather than embarrassment and shame.

It sort of diminished the glamour of the moment, but just then Irene closed the lid on the toilet seat and had me sit there while she carefully removed the hairnet and all of the hardware that she'd so carefully installed the previous night. Then she and my mom spent what seemed like hours brushing and combing and pressing and pasting everything until each hair was exactly where they wanted it to be. Then there was a brief exchange between Irene and my mom that I had forgotten for so very long, but that I now remember like it was yesterday: "What do you think, Lillian? Don't you think Barry could use just a little makeup?"

"Makeup? I don't know, Irene; what do you have in mind?"

"Nothing much. Just a touch of rouge and a little lipstick. Tiny bit of mascara. It will brighten him up so much, and then he and Karen will match."

"Well, let's see."

I don't remember any great epiphany at the mirror, but I do remember how I loved the look and feel of those sissy girly things, and I remember as if it were yesterday whispering to myself over and over, "I'm a girl. I'm really a girl," and believing it to my very core.

The graduation procession went off without a hitch, and when it was over, the Bishop gave Karen and me his blessing. I also remember mobs of young graduate nurses in their starched white caps and short wine-colored capes surrounding Karen and me, and showering us with compliments and kisses. I'm sure my face must have been covered with lipstick marks by the time we all got back into the car. It was the first, and I suppose the last time in my life that I was ever called darling, precious, adorable, and yes, pretty.

When we got back to the DuFays' house, I washed, changed, and got back into my jeans, t-shirt, and P.F. Flyers. Just as I never questioned my transformation earlier that day from denim to silk, so I accepted the inevitable fact that the day and all that had come with it was now over. I don't know what ever happened to that gorgeous suit of lights. I suppose Irene boxed it. For all I know, some other little boy may have worn it the next year.

Not only did my dad not see me that day, I'd bet a week's pay that my mom hid the pictures from him, as well. We both knew without putting it into words that we could no more talk about that graduation weekend than we could engage in a long casual discussion of anything to do with sex.

See, my dad seemed to worry a lot that his only son might turn out to be a sissy or something. A sissy, according to him, was any kid who had it too soft, who was shielded from discomfort or pain by his parents or others, or whose parents were openly solicitous of his welfare. A sissy was a boy who cried. Like I said, I was a smart kid. I knew what he wanted and I gave it to him to the best of my ability. Even as a small child, though, I could compare the way I was raised to the way that other kids were raised and know that I'd missed something. Still, I have no doubt that my dad loved me; he just had, as we say nowadays, a lot of issues.

I guess that the things I experienced that weekend were just too much at odds with the kind of son I knew my dad needed, so it's pretty obvious why I repressed those memories for so long -- long after I'd accepted the fact that I would be a lifelong cross-dresser and a closet girly-man.

It was shortly after my dad died that my mom showed me those two old pictures. One is a picture of me alone, and the other is of Karen and me holding hands on the DuFay's front lawn and smiling shyly at the camera. Karen's head was a mass of curls, and my hair was all blond waves on top and curls at the sides. Both of us have the dark lips that in black and white pictures are the tipoff that you're wearing lipstick. The instant I saw them, the memories of that day came rushing back.

In retrospect, I think that what Irene DuFay and my mother gave me that May weekend in the early '50s was a precious and wonderful gift. It was a gift I was afraid even to look at for years and years, but nowadays, when I recall another day -- the day as a young adolescent when I first slipped on a pair of my mom's panties -- I'm pretty sure I know the answer to the ancient question: "What were you *thinking*?"

  

  

  

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