Chapter 2
That which does not make us stronger... perverts us.

“Kinky is using a feather- perverted is using the whole chicken.” — Woody Allen

That’s me over there, playing in my front yard with my dog, Cossack. He was a big ole lovable, super smart collie. A lot like Lassie, but lacking the ambition to rescue me from burning barns or runaway locomotives, which was fine because there wasn’t a barn within 20 miles of our house anyway. Thus I was saved the disillusionment that my dog wasn’t all the breed was hyped up to be. Still, he was a good companion for a boy like me, a six-year-old boy with far too much imagination and a whole lifetime stretched out before him, waiting to discover the difference between reality and fantasy. Later, I would dismiss reality entirely, as being too much work and no fun.

My family lived in the suburbs of Denver, in this little mustard-colored house with brown trim. When you’re six, the whole universe can exist in a front yard. The topography can be vast. It can be peopled with all manner of fantastic creatures. The park that was only a block up the street can seem like a million miles away. A far-off land of magic. The street, a rolling forbidden river of black tar. I won’t say I long to return to childhood, but I think we should all try like hell to carry away the pieces from it that keep life interesting and wonderful. Not easy to do, of course, but it is worth trying.

I have one sibling. A sister. I didn’t really have too much to talk to her about at that age. I hardly knew her personally, given that she was two years younger than me, and didn’t seem too interested in what I had to say either. What did hold my interest about my sister was she was lucky enough to have a play companion across the street. Her name was Diana, and my sister’s name was Dianne. I didn’t have any such luck, there were no boys my age anywhere on my block. I was left to my own devices most of the time. Just me, my dog, a couple GI Joes and a front yard. Dianne, however, was always over at Diana’s house across the street, playing whatever games little girls play and generally having a blast. Now that I think about it, that block was lousy with little girls. There was a gaggle of them over at Diana’s house. All the time. All having a good time without me or my dog.

My mother would take my sister across the street to visit with Diana. I would stand stoic on the sidewalk and watch them cross the street. In my heart, I longed to go, but there is an unwritten code of boyhood that says boys never play with girls, and I wasn’t going to be the first boy in my neighborhood to cross the picket line. Girls were weird and sooooo girly like. Yet there was nobody from the boyhood union on my block to witness my traitorous act; I couldn’t really understand why I was being stubborn. I held out as long as I could, but the temptation was too much. I was lonely, I needed live friends, and live interactions. So eventually I caved, and asked to go with my mother the next time she crossed the street with my sister into no mans land. Cooties be damned.


Diana was a brat. I mean a classic spoiled brat, with all the vicious amoral loathing that went along with it. It was a helluva shock to me to find out that Diana really despised me. Imagine that, somebody who hated me. I couldn’t understand it at all. I didn’t hate anybody. She liked my sister just fine. She liked a whole pile of other neighborhood girls that were always visiting too. Why couldn’t she like me? I was a lovable kid. I certainly had no brattish traits. I was always polite. I never pulled hair, stole toys, hit for no reason, or even talked overly much. Still Diana hated me. She hated the concept of me interfering in her world. I was a boy, and as a boy, I was the enemy. And as the enemy, I had to be destroyed or assimilated.

I won’t go into all the rites and rituals practiced by little girls in the seemingly innocent act of play; suffice to say they are complex, and based in an unspoken social caste system. Chief among these rituals of play is the game of Dress Up. Girls seem to love to play dress up and this clan was no different. On this particular warm summer day, I arrived at Diana’s door with my sister and mother. Diana’s mother and mine were going shopping. Diana’s mother had employed a sitter, an older girl named Bonnie. Of course, the game today was dress up and the girls were busy selecting clothes and donning vestments.

I was in the kitchen with Bonnie, she was serving me something from a can while I drank lemonade. That’s when it hit me, the first stirrings of my tiny little male libido. It wasn’t much really, in the grander cornucopia of sexual sensations I was later to discover, but it was a start. It was pure and began as a tiny little feeling of a weakness in the legs, spreading from my as yet non-congress-functional crotch. This was a good feeling, I decided, even though I had lost all interest in my lunch. The sensation, I realized, seemed to stem from Bonnie somehow. Or more accurately, from watching Bonnie move about the kitchen talking to me. I was a little nervous; this sensation was new to me. And although pleasant, it was also terrifying. I was paralyzed, I was transfixed, I knew the last thing I wanted to do in the whole world was to move or speak. The longer I sat there and simply watched Bonnie being Bonnie the more intense the feeling became. Bonnie was asking me questions. And from somewhere deep inside I was answering. I don’t remember what I was saying; no doubt kiddy silliness filtered through the horniness screen of my embryonic lust injector. I’m not even really sure if I was speaking at all. The wonderful weak feeling had crept up my spine and made my arms go limp. Then it was assaulting my brain in wave after wave, of swirling, crashing, careening pleasure. I wasn’t orgasming, I’m pretty sure of that. I don’t think my little boy winky was capable of that. I was being held desperately right on the brink of Nirvana, having reached the end of my tether, but tugging like mad to get my balloon higher.

I do remember when Bonnie touched me, though. It was a simple hand on my arm that lingered for what seemed like an eternity. Just about the best touch I had ever felt in my life. It wasn’t like hugging my mother or having to hold my sister’s hand. This was entirely new. This was the classic pressing of the flesh; the laying on of hands. This was some kind of baser, darker feeling that thousands of years ago must have got the monkeys up in the morning, out of the trees, humping and bumping uglies down the natural selection trail. This was my first glimpse at the force that drives the universe. This was my first encounter with the Goddess, hidden in this girl somehow. I had no idea what to do with this feeling, or even if a thank you was appropriate. All I did know was I didn’t want it to stop. Ever.

I am absolutely sure now Bonnie had no idea what kind of effect she was having on me. I mean, granted she was the older woman, but at the most she was no more than 12 or 13, with just the tiniest of swells beneath her little pink top. She had no clue she was splitting the hemispheres of my brain, coiling and uncoiling my spine like a paper party favor. She was just a simple little girl showing some kindness to a little boy with nobody to play with. What I was unaware of however, was that Bonnie’s designs on me, though seemingly innocent by virtue of age, were wicked and evil in their own savage kiddie way. Somehow through the cotton stuff in my brain I heard a question from Bonnie. Bonnie was asking me something.

“Do want to play a game with me?” she asked innocently, working those big brown eyes and touching my shoulder.

“Sure,” I said, naively. “What kinda game?”

“Can I dress you up? It would be fun.”

Bonnie stroked my arm, and I mumbled “Okay. What do you want me to wear?”

“You stay right there.”

“Okay,”

“Great!”

Bonnie skipped out of the room, and I was left alone in the kitchen to finish my spaghetti-Os, so damned happy that I was making this girl happy, who had giving me so much in the short span of our relationship. I didn’t think about her asking me to play dress up at all. It didn’t occur to me in the slightest that her intentions were anything but the purest. And truthfully, I wouldn’t have cared. I had made first sexual contact with a female life form and I was barely six years old. From the other room I heard giggling and hushed whispers. Still I didn’t put two and two together. Even when Bonnie returned with a grocery sack filled with fabrics, I remained Opie Taylor ignorant.

“Have you ever dressed like a girl before? “ She asked, casually placing the bag of clothes on the table.

“NO!” I answered, all matter of fact like. I mean why would I do that? I was a boy. Boys don’t wear girl’s clothes. That was explained at the first Boyhood Union meeting. It’s in the charter. No sissy Marys!

“Can I dress you up?”

“No.”

“Please.”

“NO!”
“It would make me happy. Nobody will know. I won’t let the other girls find out. I just want to see what you would look like as a girl. We can go in the back yard around the side of the house. It will just be you and me. Okay? Please?”

“Ummmmm... okay. Just don’t let Dianne and Diana find out. No matter what.”

“I promise,” she stated, quite believably working those eyes again and smiling that smile. Did that swelling in her little pink top just for a moment get bigger or was she just standing closer to me at the time?

She grabbed my hand, swept up the sack of clothes and we were out the back door before I had a chance to say “Hold on a minute, I think my mother is calling.” Thinking back on it now I really should have been more wary. The other girls in the house up until this point had been making a helluva allot of noise. Giggling, stomping around, running through the house. Standing there around the side of house, screened by the lavender bushes, it had gone strangely quiet. I suppose if I were taller and I had the presence of mind of a older, less naive child, I would have looked up to see the girls peering between the sheers from Diana’s bedroom window. I was too distracted by what Bonnie was pulling from the grocery sack. A pink party dress complete with a white lacy pinafore and puffy sleeves. There was a white crinoline petticoat, tiny little lacy socks, Mary Jane shoes, and a pair of pink ruffled panties. This was going to get weird.

“Well hurry up and get your clothes off before somebody sees us.”

“Um... I really don’t want to do this.”

“You promised.” She started pouting slightly. “C’mon, hurry up.” Once that bottom lip comes out, it’s all over. No boy trying to please a girl in the entire history of male-female relations has ever been able to resist that pouting bottom lip thing. I never did actually promise to do this. I simply agreed to it. I was up against a girl who, at the tender age of 13, already understood many of the buttons that controlled male behavior. I didn’t stand a chance. I am sure that Bonnie, though I never saw her again after that day, has gone on to do very well for herself in this strange world where men think they are running the show.

I don’t actually remember removing my clothes. The trauma of getting naked in front of her probably drove the memory straight out of my head forever, abandoned on the cutting room floor of my subconscious. I do, however, remember trying to wiggle those panties up my legs. They were very tight, obviously a couple sizes too small for me.

“Oh! They look so cute on you!” Bonnie gushed excitedly.

I don’t know about how they looked on me, but they sure felt alien. I looked down at my torso and it was no longer mine. My crotch had been claimed by the enemy. The feeling was strange as well. Something soft and silky pressed tightly against my overstimulated John Thomas, which was mercilessly squished in a garment never designed to accommodate any outward obstruction.
And then her hands touching my ruffles, and tugging on the waist band to get them in place, was a mind blower. I had never had this feeling pulling on my cotton Fruit’s.
Once I had reached this point, I think I went into a kind of shock. I remember saying, “I don’t want to take my shirt off.”

And she said, “Don’t be silly. I promise nobody will see you. You can’t just wear the panties, you have to put on the rest of it. That’s the rules.”

“Whose rules?”

“My rules!”

The rest of the dressing process was a blur, but in mere moments I was squeezed, buttoned and tied into the dress. The socks flaring at my ankles in lace, and my feet crammed painfully into the shoes. I felt ridiculous dressed this way, awkward and humiliated beyond endurance. However, Bonnie was happy. She squeaked and squealed her delight.

“You make a cute little dollie. I wish I had a wig for you.”

“Oh crap!” I thought. ‘That’s right, my hair is cut in a crew. I virtually have no hair. I must look like a clown. I hope she can find a wig...”

Screech!

Hold the phone!

Did I think that?

Why did I think that?

I didn’t want to be dressed this way.

I was a boy, dammit!

Still, seeing as I was dressed this way, I didn’t want to look stupid...

“No wig!” I screamed in horror.

“Don’t you want to look pretty?” She asked slyly.

It was very good question. It stumped me. All kinds of new feelings were rising up in me. I was confused. Maybe I did want to look pretty. Maybe I did want to be a little a girl. I had no idea. I was six. I wasn’t even sure exactly what a boy was besides the tiny knob of skin poking out of my pelvis. It was obvious I liked girls. Or else I wouldn’t have got into in this predicament. Maybe I did want to be a girl after all... I ... .uh... Arrrrrrrgh!... Snap... My brain shorted out.

“It’s okay,” I told myself. “It will be over soon.” I mean, it couldn’t get any worse. Or maybe it couldn’t get any better. I was so confused. But of course it could get better, and worse.
“Do you want to see what you look like? Let’s go into the bathroom, and you can take a look.” She grabbed my arm and began pulling me out from behind the bushes.

“No way,” I said, pulling back. “The girls will see me.”

“No they won’t. We’ll sneak in quietly. You really make a cute girl. You have to see.”

Bonnie whipped around me and started pushing, and in these tight alien clothes I couldn’t resist.
I popped out from behind the bushes into the backyard, and there they were. All of Diana’s friends, Diana herself, and my sister, all staring at me, smiling. If it was possible, it looked like every girl for a mile radius was in that backyard. I’m sure that is an exaggeration of time and memory. I think I must have flushed the deepest red possible even before the laughter started. And, boy, did they laugh. Diana seemed to laugh the loudest. Her face is etched on my cerebral cortex as the very definition of malice. I turned to Bonnie and she was laughing too. I was betrayed for the first time in my life, and I was destroyed. I didn’t cry though. I didn’t do anything. I just stood there while they laughed and teased and taunted me.

Bonnie lifted my skirt to show the ladies my panties. They twirled me round and fussed over me, spinning me in circles. They called me a sissy and worse. They started calling me Brenda, as per Bonnie’s suggestion. They asked me if I wanted a doll to play with too. I tried running back behind the bushes, but Bonnie blocked my way. Why wasn’t my sister trying to help me? I mean she’s my blood, my kin, my ally. She just kinda hung back and observed. But what could she have done? I started pulling on the dress, trying to rip it off. It buttoned in the back and held up to my tugging. The girls grabbed me and pulled me to the laundry pole. Rope was produced from somewhere and girls began tying me to the pole. Jump ropes bound my wrists and ankles and clothes line wound around the rest my body. I wasn’t going anywhere. I begged and pleaded. I promised anything but the girls were having none of it.

Bonnie stuck her face close to mine and said, “We’re not untying you until you say that you like being a girl. You have to tell us you wish you were a real girl, and that girls are better than boys.”

There was no way I was saying that. In my kid mind if I said that, it would make me a girl. Words have power when you’re a kid, and they can be dangerous. They can mark you forever. I stood there silently waiting for them to get bored and let me go. However, it was hard to ignore the cool breeze on my exposed legs, or how the party dress felt on my skin. It was even harder to ignore my bonds. So tight, so secure. My choices taken away from me. This really did feel far too interesting and pleasurable. A part of me spoke up and said, “Why fight it?” This was good. This felt right. That part of me whispered, “You can’t do anything about it, so try to enjoy it. Look at all the attention you’re getting from these girls who wouldn’t give you a second thought in any other situation.” It was great. It was terrible. It was at the very heart of the sexual maelstrom where Perverts, Freaks, Sissies, and anybody remotely interesting are created.

 

– to be continued –