Travestina                       by: Paula Mortenson

 

Two mad actions in my life changed everything. That and the genes that made me dissatisfied with my gender. Though, I suppose when you look at it logically my whole life conspired to get me where and what I am today. If you were to go back further you could say my parents, uncles and aunts and all my ancestors contributed and I had no choice. This is and always was, my destiny.

I have a vivid memory from my childhood of a family holiday in Spain, before the time of package holidays, when my mother, sisters and I spent the entire summer in a tiny fishing village near Malaga. Its name is not important but then it was a traditional Spanish village with festivals and celebrations seemingly endlessly throughout the summer. The images of that summer remained with me as I grew up.

Beautiful, dark haired women, perched behind handsome men on massive stallions and the clack of maracas and heeled shoes as brightly coloured dresses swirled in the flamenco came unbidden into my adolescent dreams. Breasts straining in barely concealing bodices and the black tight trousers of the men cut to display their manhood to advantage still flashed into my thoughts, at strange times even after I had graduated from university. They even continued after I had courted and married Melissa. Somehow, I could never bring myself to confess those strange thoughts to her neither before nor after we married nor my own part in the fete that summer so long ago.

My father had spent two weeks with us and then he returned to England and work. That was the signal that our balmy summer was close to its end. There was to be one final village celebration just before our departure. The local women had been fascinated by my shock of sun bleached hair and I had found myself being indulged and petted wherever I went. Since I had played with the local children I had become bilingual, another memory that remained as I grew up, and my three elder sisters took advantage of my skill to negotiate secret meetings with local boys of their own age. Thus I was often woken, long after my bedtime to sneak into the village square with instructions to seek out a specific `dreamy` dark haired boy to pass on intimate girl to boy messages and carry back the replies.

One fateful night I had returned from such an assignation on behalf of my eldest sister who, at eighteen, was six years older than me when I heard my mother speaking in the kitchen with the local mayor and one of the older women. They were discussing the forthcoming festival, one involving all the local villages, this year to be held in our village. The mayor was inviting us, as visitors to take part, a great honour. El bambino, his fair hair was sure to bring good luck for there was a local legend about a fair haired princess, Tina, who had saved the village centuries before. They would like to include that in the fete but a girl in a wig would not look right and the senora`s daughters had all followed their father in being dark haired. Only El Bambino was blond and his hair had not been cut all summer. But he was a boy and boys did not wear dresses, it was against their nature but the honour of the village was at stake and would the senora talk to him and if there was anything she or her family needed? The hint was clear, I understood years later. They were desperate and would literally do anything to have the blond haired Princess Tina at their festival.

I was not surprised when my mother hesitantly broached the subject the next morning, at breakfast. The lack of sarcastic comments from my sisters told me she had already paved the way with them and as I sulkily refused my eldest sister, with whom I was closest, took me off to explain exactly how much a little embarrassment on my part would give the village a great honour and that they would never mention what I had done when we returned to England. Still I refused to co operate until she asked what I wanted the most. On my return to England my father had decreed I should attend his old school as a boarder. Despite my protestations, he had insisted as his only son my family duty was to continue the tradition to go to the school he and his father and grandfather had attended. I suggested to my sister my price and she dashed off immediately to see my mother.

The deal was done. My mother promised faithfully I could attend the local grammar school. In return I gave myself up to the tender mercies of the local women as they prepared me for my part. It was only the thought I was exchanging five days of total, excruciating embarrassment for six years at boarding school that kept me going. But as I learned to cope with the flamenco dresses that mysteriously fitted me like a glove, the make up, the heeled shoes and so much more I began to revel in my strange role. I even became an honorary sister/ daughter, admitted to the secret mysteries of womanhood with my mother and sisters, no longer the brat of a brother useful only for carrying the messages I had barely understood. Now my sisters freely explained the attractions of various local boys, seemingly forgetting I was to return, all too soon, to being the brat/brother.

For three whole days I was the centre of attention and adulation from every quarter and with only very little persuasion I appeared for one last time as Princess Tina, to wave the official farewell on behalf of the mayor. . In my innocence and unadmitted pleasure I never realised I might have been in danger but every moment I was chaperoned by my mother or sisters, never being left alone with strangers

My disappointment was that the public embarrassment had been in vain as when we returned to England my parents rowed incessantly and I still had to go away to boarding school. After my first year my parents parted and I did then return home and to the local grammar school. Only as I was going off the university did my mother confess she had tried everything to persuade my father but she could not bring herself to explain to him why she had made such a promise to me. She had kept her part of the bargain that no mention of my time as the fair haired princess would ever be mentioned on our return to England.

My marriage had been moderately successful until in a second moment of madness I found myself unable to resist trying on underwear my wife had bought at a knicker party. I had come home one evening to find the house echoing to the laughter of a group of her friends as they examined exotic undies and the sight of the lacy shaping underwear had reawakened memories of those far off days in Spain. Those three days when I had been Princess Tina. For the first time it struck me how happy I had been in those days, how I had revelled in the caress of the silky underwear and the swirl of the brightly coloured dresses. For as the central character of the festival I had a complete new outfit, not only for each day but one for each morning, afternoon and evening. Each one fitted perfectly, each one more exciting and pretty than the last.

I was intrigued and entrapped by my recollections, hypnotised by the visions, sounds, perfumes, the comforting caresses of the unfamiliar attire and the adulation of the crowds. I found, to my surprise my wife's selections fitted me perfectly, she being a little plump and me being slimmer than most men. But it was the comfort of the tight fitting body and the manner in which it pleasingly moulded my shape that was the surprise. I felt so calm and relaxed that as I lay, I thought momentarily, on our bed I relaxed into a deep sleep. My awakening was to a purple faced, spitting and spiteful wife, disgusted to discover her husband a `filthy pervert`. Words I was to believe initially and in my confusion and self disgust I fled our house, barely stopping to throw male clothes over the still comforting feminine underwear. I could not face going back, particularly after my wife had visited my office the next morning to scream abuse and pour out her recriminations for all to hear.

I was devastated. Unable to face my colleagues, at work and unable to return home I slept rough for three nights, in my car and it was with a heavy and reluctant heart I turned to my eldest sister for her understanding and help.

Her reaction was entirely unexpected. Had she seen and understood something, all those years before? Melissa had already spat out her upset to her but eldest sisters being what they are she had awaited my explanation. There was no shock, but then Melissa's words had warned her. There was only sisterly practicality. I was instructed to take a bath and told to dress in clean clothes. My appearance, she told me later, was the only shock that morning. There was no judgement not even a suggestion, just a friendly ear listening to my troubles. Troubles brought about by those idyllic memories from that childhood summer. There was a far off look in her eyes, telling of an inner sadness and yet I knew, somehow, the regrets were not for my actions.

It was me, I am certain, who suggested I should get away both to let things settle down and to reflect on where my life should go. My question where I could go was met by my sister's sad, reflective gaze and without a word I knew I would return to that village, near Malaga. In her only positive action that morning she searched out a name, address and telephone number and in halting Spanish explained El Bambino needed a place to stay. It was apparent there were questions from the other end of the phone but I only heard her answers. No, she didn't know how long he was staying. She was pressed very hard but she would only say El Bambino was very troubled and needed peace and rest. She was not planning to come out to Spain but perhaps next summer. There were promises to call again when she knew the flight I was taking before she bade farewell and turned her tearful eyes toward me.

She fussed over me as I prepared to leave for the airport the following morning and to my surprise she insisted on both packing for me and driving me there. After I had checked the surprisingly heavy suitcase she had lent to me she kissed me farewell and whispered, "Take your time, my dear and find yourself."

The flight was uneventful and it wasn't until I walked through Arrivals at Malaga I realised I had no transport nor did I have any idea where I was going to stay. Those problems soon disappeared after I was approached by a striking lady of indeterminate age holding a photograph. "Senor?", she enquired, showing me a recent snapshot of myself. She spoke little English but my memories of that long lost summer brought back enough Spanish for me to establish she had been sent to collect me. As we walked together out to the car parks she never took her eyes off me and my still long blond hair. I had to insist I carried my own case and found myself being ushered through doors first. Initially I thought she was afraid of losing me but very much later I began to comprehend my situation. Our journey passed in silence, more from my driver's lack of English than her interest in me. I sensed her gazing at me at every opportunity but each time I looked in her direction she blushed and concentrated on the road.

Being late summer the area was full of visitors and I had little idea where she was taking me the whole area having been developed in the years since my last visit. Suddenly she turned from the busy main road and set off on a quieter one up into the mountains. As we climbed I could see the coastline marked out by the high rise hotels and a vague memory returned of the view below us. I recalled the village in the foothills and the long walk down to the seashore to watch the fishing boats return in the mornings.

The village square had not changed. The close packed houses crowded around the square providing shadow for most of the day and the coolness of the alleyways running to more houses behind giving relief from the unforgiving heat of the sun. The car lurched to a halt alongside a familiar massive door. My minder leapt from the car and dashed to grab my case from the boot signalling me to follow her towards the door. As I stepped from the car I felt the eyes watching me from every window and doorway around the square. The silence was eerie, no one was around and so my imagination worked overtime. A gust of hot wind rushed through the square and it seemed to be whispering, Princess Tina, El Bambino.

I was ushered upstairs to my room and with a mixture of sign language and a few words of Spanish and English I was told this was to be my home and a meal would be ready shortly. Anything I wanted, anything I needed, Juanita, as I learned to call my driver, would see it was there immediately. I wandered downstairs in search of a drink and was immediately met by another female who might have been Juanita`s sister. Again with sign language I indicated my needs and a bottle of wine appeared. As I sat, alone, in the traditional kitchen I was, once again, aware of being watched and as I found I had finished the bottle another almost magically appeared.

I was exhausted before I had set out and now, after a long journey and a bottle and a half of wine I was ready to fall asleep at a moments notice so I staggered upstairs to my room. I awoke in the cool of early evening. As I glanced around, still half asleep, I saw a shadowy figure busying herself at the wardrobe, putting away the contents of my suitcase. Juanita turned, and seeing me awake launched into what I vaguely understood as being regrets for disturbing Princess Tina. She begged my forgiveness, almost hysterical in her voluble apologies but excusing herself by indicating the clothes she was hanging up. That they had come from my suitcase, or rather the one loaned me by my sister there was no doubt but I saw no clothes I recognised as my own. Juanita smiled shyly at me as she lifted brightly coloured silky knickers from the case and smoothed them into a draw. I understood her muttered words as she admired the underwear and indicated I had clothes suitable for a princess.

Juanita scurried from my room and reappeared several minutes later bearing a white fluffy bathrobe and even if I didn't understand every word she uttered the sound of the running bath from an adjacent room and her shooing me towards it soon meant I gathered her intentions for me. The cool evening air made me draw the robe tightly around myself as I padded back to my bedroom, now fully refreshed by the calming oils which had been thoughtfully added to the bath water. It did not surprise me to find, laid out on my bed, matching silky underwear together with a simple skirt, top and shoes.

During that winter my Spanish improved, as did my figure. There was no compulsion but an exercise bike appeared and Juanita suggested I used it. Just as she suggested when she appeared one morning that I might like to have a beauty treatment that became a regular weekly event. I never wore anything but pretty feminine clothes and all my troubles fell away. As the mild winter fell away into the spring I met the women of the village and after a few weeks I ceased being puzzled and embarrassed by my exclusion from the male society and accepted my transition from El bambino blond to Princess Tina.

I now understand that it is once again the turn of my village to stage the festival of Princess Tina and once again they will be the talk of the region by having a real blond princess, like the one in the legend. Tomorrow, my sisters arrive to celebrate with us the festival. Once again, I know, I will be admitted to their secret mysteries but this time there will be no returning to England nor to being their brat brother.

 

 

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© 2001 by Paula Mortenson. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.