T.J.’s Experiment in Pink

by Anne O’Nonymous

 

PART ONE

 

How is it possible to get into what appears to be a bad situation, and come out actually smelling roses. Well, it happened, and I’m not the least bit sorry it did occur, for I found out that life has more beauty in it that I could ever imagine – and I mean real beauty

Okay, I guess you need my name – it’s Terence Josiah Matthews. I’m sixteen, named after my grandfathers, and I live with my mother, Nancy (not Nan, always Nancy), and sister, Sandra, eighteen months my senior. At school, the teachers call me "TeeJay" and my few friends call me "Tea" (I developed a liking for it, hence the moniker).

My mother is a stunning green-eyed, auburn hair beauty, working as a marketing executive with a local cosmetics company. She recently returned to college to get some needed credits for her Masters’ degree, which would guarantee advancement in her chosen profession.

Sandra, a blue-eyed, raven hair beauty (apparently from her father’s side), is a senior in high school. She could’ve had any boy in school, only she and I were alike – we both liked beautiful girls, only she got hers and I didn’t (as far as girls went, I could only admire them).

(At this point, I have to confess to a terrible sin: I was deeply in love with my sister. Oh, it’s not that sexual crap, but a deeper feeling that has no need for a "wham bam, thank you ma’am" kind of stuff. Because she was what she was [and all those legalities], it would have to be an unrequited, far away kind of love.)

My father? He was killed in an industrial accident when I was four years old. The insurance settlement was enough to keep us going for years, with two companies found at fault. Mom stayed single and used much of the money to further her and our education, while fending off the money hungry males that were after her. "I can double that settlement in four years," most of them said. Oh yeah, was mom’s reply!

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It all really began on a cool Friday night in the summer. At the time, Mom had a Continuing Education class in Business Administration at a college some two hundred miles away. On alternate weekends, she would drive there Friday night, stay with a friend, take the necessary classes and return late Sunday night. Sis, being the older, was in charge of the house. I didn’t mind, as she usually went to a friend’s house. I was in charge – Yippee!

"Hey, TJ, I’m going over to Fran’s. I’ll be back late tomorrow," Sandy announced as she left.

Fran was Francine Taylor, Sandy’s lover, a typical blue-eyed blonde, only with a brain. Both she and sis are athletic, smart and strong, with the choice of an athletic and/or academic scholarship waiting on graduation. Neither would take any crap from a mere male.

"Okay, I have her number for emergencies. Are the dishes done?"

"All taken care of, bro," she sang out. It was her night to do them.

We had been raised to rotate the chores -- I was not a chauvinist. I washed clothes, ironed, mopped floors, and did other so-called "woman’s" work. Heck, I could even sew on buttons, or cook a fancy dinner for four, if asked.

The TV beckoned and, with no other scheduled chores, I decided to do a little channel surfing. Football was out (two mediocre teams), cooking program (meat – I was almost a vegetarian), Jerry Springer (hummm, a possibility), flew by as I flicked the remote. A History channel program on Egypt was interesting for awhile. Then, while checking the listing, a program caught my eye -- "Men in Dresses and Those who Love Them." I put in on and watched in incredulous fascination.

It was interesting, as some of the statements made seemed to contradict what I was previously told (the usual guy-to-guy schoolyard talk). I had always thought a man in a dress was gay, "queer" or sick. These guys seemed too normal. I mean, one was a fireman and another was a retired air force pilot. And their wives – one was a 10+ if ever there was one! (Even one of the guests was damn good looking.) A statement made on the program really stuck in my mind – one man said, "it’s not like I want to dress, I have to."

Exactly what was it about female garments that attracted them – color, fabric or feel -- none of the guests could give a definite answer. Just how different could those feminine items be? I mean because they were softer than what I normally wore, what would be the big attraction? I could wear some of my sister’s things, as an experiment – just to see how they feel, and how much different they were, compared to what I normally wore. Maybe even take notes.

But, that would have to wait for tomorrow, as it was getting late, and I was tired. I put off a shower ’til morning, sleeping in boxers only.

I dreamed of putting out a fire, dressed only in a bra and panty -- I could feel the heat. Next I arrested a wanted felon, while dressed in a policewoman’s uniform. More strange thoughts coursed through – brave men doing brave things in female dress. So, did the clothes make them weak? And just what are clothes -- only to cover bodies, define our place in society, or our gender? Do the clothes we now wear have an historical precedent? The question arises: if we were free in our choice of what to wear, would we wear what we do now?

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Morning arrived on schedule; that is, I got up at a time that was usual for me. A quick shower, clean underwear, a robe and slippers, and I was ready for a breakfast of a cheese-pepper-and-onion omelet, home fries, tea (English Breakfast, if you must know), OJ, and cracked wheat toast.

I couldn’t help but wonder about my disconcerting dream last night. To clear my mind of the thoughts, I decided to watch TV. Bad idea: Bugs Bunny cartoon, with Bugs as Carmen Miranda (I didn’t even know who she was); so I changed channels, to a movie channel, "To Wong Foo, etc." Next, an "Elmer Fudd in a dress" cartoon. Where did they all come from? The label "comical" seemed to be placed on these crossdressers. But, then again, I guess it’s no fun being that way to them -- I don’t think they can help what they are.

I switched to the news to see what the weather would be. There, in the broadcast, I found out just how unfunny crossdressing can be.

Marie Cobb, our local newsperson, announced: "Local authorities said today they found the body of an unidentified young man, dressed in female clothes, in a remote, densely wooded section of Congreve Park. Preliminary statements from the Coroner’s office said the young person was repeatedly beaten with a baseball bat or similar blunt instrument . . ."

The picture of a draped body appeared on the screen, as an urgent appeal went out to identify the victim. Would anyone own up to this being their son? I turned off the TV, and wiped my eyes. The thought that anyone could do something that brutal always brought tears to my eyes. I just refuse to believe how savage and brutal our so-called civilized society still remains. Yes, crossdressing can be very unfunny!

Still, I did not have a clear understanding of the appeal of ladies’ clothes, but I sure as hell found how dangerous, in some minds, it could be. Maybe some have the idea that it’s a revolutionary plot to enslave men’s minds; but, there does seems to be a definite attraction – so, how to find out! My guess was to try it for myself.

Sandy was about my height and weight (I was wiry, or, more precisely, skinny), and mom was an inch or two taller. To really get into the proper mood, I should go all out – that meant everything from heels to makeup. After I was completely dressed, I would write down how I felt, or my thoughts as I dressed. The first item would be a bubble bath, with a little perfume added to the water.

With the tub one-quarter full, I added the perfume and bath stuff. Soon a nice, pleasant aroma permeated the room. Getting into the tub, I washed with a beauty soap mom usually used. It was creamier than the soap I normally use (Irish Spring). Now I was blessed with very little body hair – in fact, none – all I needed to remove was under my arms. (Now, of all places, why do we have hair in the armpit?) Using mom’s razor and shave cream, I soon took care of that little problem.

After the bath, I remembered to pat dry, like a female. It wouldn’t affect the experiment, but I felt it necessary to experience the whole spectrum of change. (It’s like driving one nail and calling yourself a carpenter.) Since a woman pats herself dry after a bath, I should do the same. A cocoa butter crème was available, so I applied that over my whole body, and dusted with a lilac-scented powder sitting nearby. A floral aroma enveloped my surroundings – I was a walking flower garden!

Now for the clothes! Mom loved the soft, silky, lacy stuff, while sis was more utilitarian. Mom was satin, nylon, silk, and sis was cotton, acetate, and tricot. Again, mom was pink, black and pastels; while sis was white and black, sometimes pink. I was perplexed by the selection I would have – should I try both separately, or a combination? Sort of a mix and unmatch deal.

Well, I couldn’t stand here naked, after all time was moving and I should be doing something. The combo was appealing, a kind of two-way approach with some of mom’s and some of sis’s.

The wash hamper stood there beckoning. I grabbed what was there and went into mom’s room. The first item was a pair of black patterned control-top pantyhose. (If there is only one, why is it a pair I wondered?) I remembered to roll them up, so after a struggle I managed to get them on. Working them up my legs and keeping them straight would have made a contortionist proud. The experience of having my legs completely covered with nylon was something new to me. It felt so strange, but rather pleasant.

After making sure the pantyhose was snug I contemplated the next item. (Now should I call them "my" pantyhose?) Should I wear panties or not? Mom’s or sis’s? The answer was right in front of me – a pair of laciest pink panties I’ve ever seen (not that I saw too many).

Description: "The item in particular is pink nylon, brief style, lace edged (three rows) around legs and waist, with a red, lace-edged heart in the pubic (There, I said it!) area. Fits sizes 5/6."

I stepped in and pulled them up. A look in the mirror produced an effect that was unusual for me – I was getting an erection! Should I make a note, or just remember what happened? What if someone found the notes? I could make notes and carefully hide them. I could get into really big trouble. I could picture the agony for months. I could shut up and get back to the experiment!

Description: "Brassiere, commonly called a bra; Pink (matching panties), size 36C, with padded camisole straps; Heart-shaped lace inset at areolas, and red bow between cups."

I couldn’t reach the hooks in back, no matter how hard I tried. Finally, I managed by fastening them in front and turning the bra around. Did those men go through all that trouble? I wonder how they did it? So, they’re on, now what to use to fill them out. Simple!

Years ago, mom worked part-time at a medical center that dealt with female diseases, mainly breast cancer. She had several samples of breast replacement forms to show, and she kept them. All I need to do is find them! A box in a closet yielded a left and right in just the right size. It would figure she would have them to fit her own bra.

Okay, now we’re cooking. The bra filled out nicely, and I needed the next item. A full slip, or a camisole and petticoat -- I chose the slip, as it was already in the wash.

Description: "A full taffeta slip, ivory in color, with heart-shaped appliqués around waist; spaghetti straps; lace at bodice and hem. Size: missing, as tab was removed."

My sister seemed to have clothes with a lot less lace on! Could that be because she was a lesbian, or did she just not like lace? I put the slip over my head and just let it drift down, savoring the feel of the garment. What made me aware of the feel was the arousal of my organ. In fact, I really liked the feeling I was getting – could this be true in all males, or only in a few?

Is it possible that the feel of certain items stimulates areas of the brain devoted to sex or other sensuous pleasures? Or, possibly stimulate dormant areas? Does the aroma of perfume do the same? Is the brain in all men or only certain ones wired in this manner? This experiment seems, to me at least, to show that it does. As I looked in the mirror, I could feel a growing erection from the stimulus of myself in what were forbidden garments. I stood there, running my hands up and down the slip enjoying the feel of its softness.

As I walked around in my stocking feet, I could hear a soft swish-swish from the slip. Should I write down just how good I was feeling at the moment, and how do I explain it? What would be my unbiased observation? (I guess I should just enjoy the moment, after all this is a one-shot deal, isn’t it?)

Now to find a dress. The pile yielded a blue one mom had worn two days ago.

Description: "Blue floral print dress with a square neck, Jumper-style; rayon acetate; wrist-length nylon sleeves; knee length, with a side zipper."

After putting it on and closing up the zipper, I began to think I should have put on makeup first. From watching mom many, many times, I remembered she would be dressed and making up when she gave me my chores for the day. But shoes came first.

Description: "Blue with a single strap at the instep; one inch heel, rounded toe (comment: I think these are called "Mary Janes." Must verify)."

I smoothed down the dress, marveling at the feel against my body, buttoned the sleeves and fastened the strap securing the shoe to my foot. I even checked in the full-length mirror to see if the slip was showing! What next – wig or makeup? Obviously, I thought, makeup (I could’ve been wrong, but hey, this is my first time [comment: did I just say "first time?"]).

Using mom’s vanity, I managed to get a fairly decent foundation on my face in three tries. The first two applications didn’t seem to be enough, at least to these untrained eyes. Next a very light blush, followed by Candy Apple red lipstick. Now the question arose as to using eyeliner, mascara, or shadow. I didn’t think I could remove them before my sister returned, at least to the point where they would be unnoticeable. The same thought applied to nail polish. Last, perfume was dabbed on the wrist, and behind each ear; well, maybe two dabs.

Mom had three watches. I tried the Bulova, and decided it looked the best. Two silver Celtic-style bracelets were squeezed on, followed by a faux pearl necklace and a pair of pearl-drop, clip-on earrings. Out of curiosity, I tried on a lovely pearl ring and was amazed that it fit so nicely. I held my hand out to admire its beauty, almost like it was made for my finger.

Looking in the mirror, I was surprised by the appearance of a made-up male head on a female body. I mean the contrast was striking. I started searching for a wig, to make the transformation more believable. Now, should I be a Blonde, Redhead, Brunette, or Raven haired.

Again, mom’s previous job at the cancer center came into good use. Chemotherapy had a lot of women losing hair, and the wigs were demonstrations to show how nice they could still appear. (Comment: Why do I feel women have more health problems than men, and still live longer? Breast cancer, childbirth diseases, VD, yeast infections – all affect females! And yet, very few complain. So how can they be the weaker sex?)

An auburn wig appeared to look the best with the blue dress. Sitting down at the vanity, I managed to figure out how to get it on and fastened down and, after making a few little last minute adjustments to the bangs, I was looking at a rather attractive young lady staring back from the mirror.

As I sat there, admiring the reflection, I wondered if maybe, deep down, this was the real me and everything else an illusion. The image was fascinating; I knew it was myself, and yet not me – a part that’s there, but hidden. Was that part suppressed because it makes males appear weak and vulnerable, like a woman. Just what does constitute strength and weakness? (Comment: this is only a theory, conjecture, and guesswork. I don’t know how to prove it.)

Getting up, I walked towards the full-length mirror with the dress swaying to and fro, the slip swishing with each step, admiring myself. My heart was pounding, pulse racing, as I felt there was a present fear of being caught. I gathered up the strewn-about laundry and carried it down to the kitchen. I swear I stopped at every mirror, as I could not believe what I saw. I needed something stronger than tea, a cup of coffee for sure.

After making the brew, I sat down and tried to make sense of what I was feeling. I even remembered to adjust my dress as I sat. Sipping the coffee, I saw my lips making the same red markings on the cup as my mother and sister – I was now one of them. On finishing the drink, I washed the cup clean, and went up to repair my lipstick. Gee, my lipstick!

(Comment: I am now thinking of what was feminine as my own, hence my lipstick. Have I changed that much in so short a time?)

Managing to avoid mirrors, I made it to the basement and started a load of wash, mostly my shirts and boxers from the week. Socks were washed separately, as they were mostly not colorfast. I sat, shoes off and legs tucked up under me, reading some of mom’s magazines as the wash went through its cycles. When the timer went off, I put one load in dryer and another in the washer. I had planned on vacuuming the family room later. When the wash was finished, I carried it upstairs. Ironing would wait ’til tomorrow.

Now don’t think I forgot what I was wearing. Oooops, I did! Funny, it was as if I was dressed like any other day. Oh, I noticed the weight and feel of the breasts, the sway of my dress, and the feel of the necklace and bracelets, but they were on their way to becoming familiar objects. I was adapting to this new way, or, perhaps, I was accepting what should have been a strange situation. I would have to add that it isn’t bad, in fact, I feel rather good. (Comment: I am wearing forbidden items, so why do I feel good? Does the fact that I look rather attractive have anything to do with it?)

"Ma’am, who are you and what are you doing . . ., TJ, is that you?"

Yikes, s----, s----, s-----! I was caught, but good! (I was raised not to use bad words, so merde.) Sandra apparently came in while I was busy with the wash. There I stood, looking like June Cleaver, in my mind – prettier, and I was shaking like a leaf in a hurricane and earthquake combined.

 

To Be Continued –

Annie O

 

 

 

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