It was so early the next morning when my mother got me up the sun hadn't even thought about shining. 5:30 a.m. to be exact. Mom told me to go to the bathroom and wash my face while she laid out my clothes for the day. When I came back I was distressed to see a complete girl's outfit waiting for me, including the polka dot dress she’d bought me, a slip, fresh bra and panties, hose, heels and another long-legged girdle.

"Change quickly, now," my mother instructed. "I have to leave for work in a little while and you have to make breakfast and help me get dressed."

While Mom retired to the bathroom, I did as I was told. Tears filled my eyes as I dressed myself. This wasn't going to stop, I realized. She’s going to make me dress like a girl for the rest of my life!

I did the best I could, considering how early it was. The girdle, of course, was the worst part; I thought I'd never get it on, but I wasn't about to have Mom come in and help me; I knew I'd never hear the end of it if I did. And I wasn't about to give her reason to complain. I managed to get my hose on without snagging them and I even brushed out my hair and put on my makeup without being reminded. I figured I may as well. Considering how I was dressed, I'd look pretty goofy without it.

When I got downstairs I went ahead and started the coffee and toast, taking time to slip my apron over my dress to keep from making a mess. Mom arrived soon after and after giving me a long look and a nod, she smiled and kissed me on the forehead as though I'd done something right for a change.

"You might want to go put on a different lipstick, sweetie," she said with a wink. "Save your red for when you go out or maybe you're doing something special in the evening."

Darned if you do and darned if you don't! Chagrined, I clomped upstairs and removed my red lipstick and replaced it with pink. I had to touch up my mascara a little bit, also, from where I smeared it. So many rules, so many things to remember … I was beginning to realize being a girl was a lot harder than it looked.

Still in her gown, Mom sat at the kitchen table and chatted and sipped coffee and read the paper while I worked on breakfast. She talked me through scrambling the eggs and frying the bacon, and I managed to butter the toast and set the table on my own. I even took the time to spread jam on her toast for her, a gesture that caused her to smile as though I'd performed a miracle.

"It’s so nice having a pretty ‘daughter’ waiting on me for a change. I might just get used to this," she said as she enjoyed her meal.

"Please, Mom, don’t tease me." I made a pouty face, not at all pleased with my new role. "This isn’t funny at all."

"You’re right. It isn’t funny." She looked over her coffee cup at me and smiled. "But it is fun, though."

Even though I wasn't too hungry at the time (the new girdle I wore was even tighter than the other one and I was afraid to put anything in my stomach for fear of bursting something) Mom insisted that I sit and have a cup of coffee with her while she ate. I wasn't too much of a coffee drinker, but with enough milk and sugar I put together a concoction that was palatable. I then took my seat across the table from my mother.

Mom paused for a moment and waved her fork at me as though I'd messed up something. "No. No, that wasn't right. Try it again."

"Uh, what wasn't right, Mom?"

"The way you sat in that chair. Try it again. This time, don't just plop down. Take your time and ease yourself into it. Carefully, as though you're afraid you might break something."

I stared at her for a moment and then shrugged my shoulders. "Umm, okay."

Leave it to my mother to turn sitting in a chair into a lesson on acting like a girl. I did as I was told, so I thought, and I was again criticized. This time I was told to tuck the skirt of my dress under my bottom with my free hand as I sat, to keep it from bunching up.

"That's better," my mom said, chewing her food thoughtfully. "But not good enough. Do it one more time."

As you can imagine, I repeated the act of sitting down at least a dozen times. Finally, my mother told me to remain seated and to drink my coffee.

"You can practice some later today, after you finish your chores. If you're going to wear a dress you're going to have to learn how to properly manage yourself."

As dumb as I felt, I was grateful to know that no one else could see me or would even know what I was doing. A thirteen year old boy sitting at the kitchen table, dressed like a teenaged girl and sipping coffee with his mother … what a ridiculous sight I would have made for my friends at school or on the ball team! It was like a scene in one of those girl movies or a bad play, but with me in the title role! As quiet and calm as the world was at that moment, inside my head I could already hear the laughing and name-calling that would have gone on had my secret been exposed.

Before finishing her breakfast Mom cited to me a list of chores that she wanted done before she came home that afternoon. Most were already written down on a notepad laying on the kitchen table, but she had me add a few more while we chatted. In addition to finishing up the ironing and the laundry, she wanted me to vacuum the living room, hall and bedrooms, dust the furniture and clean all of the bathrooms.

"You might want to take off your dress when you do some of these," she suggested. "Some of the cleansers may cause spotting or stains in that fabric."

My pulse raced with hope. "Then I can put on my boy stuff?"

"No! You can not put on your boy stuff! Pay attention, unless you want another slap in the face!" Mom talked to me in a stern, careful voice, just as she would a little child. "Just slip out of your dress when you’re doing something messy, then put it back on. I want the house clean …."

"You mean, wear just my … underwear …?"

"Yes, just your underwear! Don’t interrupt! Anyway, I don’t want you ruining your pretty clothes. And don’t make such a face. Girls and women often run around the house in their undies. It’s not a big deal … unless you make it that way." She gave me a careful look. "Either way, I’ll hold you responsible for both how the house looks and how you look at the end of the day. And don’t even think about putting on your jeans or any other pair of pants. You do and I’ll know. Trust me, I will."

With each new rule I could feel my freedom slipping away, and I wondered if the rest of my summer was going to be like this.

After breakfast was out of the way Mom told me to come upstairs and help her get ready for work. I wasn't sure what this would entail, but I nodded and did as I was told.

"Here, sweetie, make my bed for me if you would. I want you to do this every day, along with yours and Dave’s as well. Do a good job, or you’ll just have to start all over again."

Mom’s standards were pretty high, so I had to do it twice, of course. This was exhausting considering how I was dressed; it’s hard keeping your balance on high heels when you’re all bent over and trying to flatten the wrinkles out of a mattress pad. That stupid girdle was cutting into my sides and several times I had to pause just to catch my breath.

Once the bed was made I was then given a fresh nurse's uniform and told to take it off the hanger and straighten out any wrinkles and then lay it on the freshly made bed. I was also given a brush and some white polish and told to touch up her shoes. While I did this my mom took off her gown and proceeded to slip into her underthings.

I tried hard not to pay attention, but I couldn't help it. Despite her years my mother was quite elegant in the way she handled herself. It was fascinating to watch out of the corner of my eye as she slipped into her brassiere and her panties, sliding the silken garments over her skin as though it was part of a dance. Even putting on a girdle — an act of humiliation as far as I was concerned! — seemed second nature to her and the way she adorned her legs with her stockings was even more interesting to me than watching a no-hitter at the world's series. Heaven forbid, but I found myself thinking "So that's how that's done!" and "Why is that so easy for her and such a pain for me?" as I finished up polishing her shoes.

With her slip and dress in place, Mom sat at her vanity to put on her makeup. Seeing me standing there doing nothing, she smiled.

"Are my shoes ready, sweetie?" I nodded dumbly. "Here, then, why don't you slip them on my feet while I put on my face. Would you do that for your poor old mother, please?"

The next thing I knew I found myself kneeling before my mother and sliding her shoes over her nylon-clad feet. The whole scene was so surreal, like a weird dream, but I took a deep breath and managed to finish my task without embarrassing myself too badly. A couple of days before, if you'd even suggested that I'd be doing something like that I'd have said you were nuts. Now, well, it just seemed like the thing for me to do.

"Here, hold still a minute," Mom said when I was done with her shoes. I was still kneeling there before her, struggling to maintain my breath in that tight girdle. She dug around in a drawer for a moment, and then I felt something being placed on my head, something tight and sharp, clamping down on either side of my head like a spring or something.

"There, that looks nice. That hairband will keep your hair out of your face while you're doing your chores. It makes you look very stylish as well."

I looked in my mom's makeup mirror and blinked. There it was, a white plastic hairband, just like the girls at school all wore, clamped tight across the top of my dark brown hair. Mom fluffed out my bangs a bit and spit a little on her fingertip and smeared it into a stray lock over my ear. If I hadn't known it was me, well … I probably wouldn't have recognized myself.

Just before she left for work Mom reminded me to wake Dave up by eight o'clock so he could go swimming with his friends. I was to fix him breakfast if he wanted, otherwise I was to work on my chores.

Digging the toe of my high heel in the carpet, I took a deep breath. "Uh, Mom, before you go, you know … you know I’m supposed to have ball practice tonight. Down at the park. We’re having a game this Saturday, too. I can still go, can’t I?"

Mom looked down her nose at me. Her nose wrinkled like she smelled something bad.

"Baseball? This afternoon? I don’t think so!"

My heart pounded. No baseball? She couldn’t do this to me! She had to let me go … the team needed me. More importantly, I had to get out of those clothes. I didn’t want to look like a nerd all summer long! I struggled in vain to contain my frustration. "Please? I mean, I am the second baseman, after all. Coach is expecting me to show up and help out, you know. I’ll do an extra good job with my chores, I promise!"

My mother shook her head. She never was a big sports fan and I could tell that ball practice didn’t fit into her plans for me. That was just great as far as I was concerned. I’d do anything to get out of wearing that stupid girdle!

"Please?" I smiled my most innocent smile. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how ridiculous I looked.

Mom sighed and nodded reluctantly. "We’ll see. You do have an obligation to your team, I guess. As long as you get your chores done, I suppose it’ll be all right. But you have to pass my inspection. AND … you are to come straight home, understand? I’m not having you out getting into trouble again."

Shaking my head up and down frantically, I assured her I would be on my best behavior.

"Meanwhile, just make sure you stay in the house while I’m gone," she warned, shaking a firm finger in my face. "If I find out you snuck off again like you did yesterday, there will be no baseball. That, and you'll wish you weren't even born."

As the front door slammed shut I found myself wondering just exactly what it was my mom was thinking. Stay in the house? I turned and stared at the feminine figure reflected in the hall mirror. Why in the world would she'd think I might even consider leaving the house, I wondered. I'd be an idiot if I did! It was bad enough that I had to look at myself dressed like a girl, there was no way I was going to let anyone else see me!

I had a while before Dave got up, so I went into the living room and plopped down on the couch. I kicked off those stupid high heels and crossed my arms over my padded breasts. I might have to dress up like some fairy all day long, but that didn't mean I had to act like one!

Even though I knew I’d be playing ball that afternoon, I was still pretty upset. I pouted and fumed for almost an hour, sitting alone in the living room in my punishment clothes. There was little else I could do, considering the spot I'd found myself in. Frustrated and bored, I turned the television on to some cartoons and pretended I was on somewhere else.

Around eight I woke up Dave and offered to fix him breakfast. All he wanted was a bowl of cereal, which I told him to fix for himself. I then went down to finish cleaning the kitchen.

"Mom said you were supposed to fix my breakfast," Dave said as he came into the kitchen. The smart aleck look on his face made me want to punch him out. "Aren't you going to do it?"

"Fix your own," I snapped. "It's just cereal. You arm isn't broken … yet."

"Uh-uh-uh!! Mom told me to tell her if you didn't follow the rules. You're supposed to fix my breakfast and stuff, just like mom does. If you don't, she's really gonna let you have it when she gets home tonight!"

That did it! I wasn't going to take any crap from the likes of that little tattletale! I turned around and made a fist and shook it at him. My painted fingernails made it look less than threatening.

"Oh, just shut up, you little brat! Just shut up and get your own damned breakfast and go on, go swimming with your buddies. I hope you drown, you little bastard! You don't have to put up with all this stupid stuff like I do. Why don't you just shut the fuck up and leave me alone!"

Dave backed off for a second. He looked at me for a second, and then he grinned as he reached for his cereal. In spite of my blow up he decided I wasn't about to lay a finger on him. And he was right. All I needed was for him to go running to Mom with some story about how I was picking on him again. Even if he was lying through his teeth she'd find some reason to take up his side, I just knew it.

"I don't have to do what you say, ‘Pamela’," Dave said in a lilting, singsong voice. "I'm not the one wearing panties and lipstick." The giggle he gave hurt worse than a slap in the face from my mom. "You're the one who better watch out. Mom's not gonna very happy when she hears about how you're talking to me."

I resisted the temptation to punch him out and concentrated on getting him out the door instead. I had a lot of thinking to do and the sooner I was alone the better.

Dave's ride came at nine. By then it was time for my movie, so I plopped down in front of the television with a glass of milk and some cookies, and for the next couple of hours tried to forget that I was dressed like a complete dork. At one point I looked down at the glass I was drinking out of and saw that familiar pink lip print standing out against the white milk. Disgusted, I wiped my mouth clean on my arm and took another drink. No sign of pink this time. While I was at it, I pulled that dinky little hairband out of my hair, tossed it and mussed up my hair. There. That felt a lot better. Munching another cookie, I felt at least a little bit vindicated.

I was thinking about changing into my boy clothes when the phone rang. My jeans sure would feel good about now, I was thinking as I slid across the hardwood floor in my stocking feet — not a very ladylike maneuver, but what did I care? Mom won’t know and I can change back before she came home from work. This might not be so bad after all!

"Yeah?" I answered the phone in a less than pleasant manner. I waited for a moment, but there was nothing on the other end of the line. "Hello? Who is this?" I raised my voice a little louder, frustrated to be taken away from my show.

"Hello? ‘Pamela’? Is that you, dear? What's that I hear?" There was a moment of silence, then … "GREGORY PARKER!!! Do you have that television on?"

Darn it! It was my mom!!! I looked down at the cookie in my hand and my stocking feet and I suddenly felt as though I'd been caught doing something evil. I nearly tripped over the coffee table in my hurry to turn the volume down on the TV set.

"Uh, oh .. hi, Mom. Uh, yeah, I just had it on .. you know, for noise. It's kinda quiet in the house. You know, what with you and Dave being gone all day."

"Hmmm … I see. Well, turn it off. I know how you are when you’re around the TV. How far along are you on your chores? You've got a lot to do today. I better not find out you've been slacking off."

I bit my lip. "Uh, I'm doing all right. I'm about done with the ironing and stuff. I still got the vacuuming and the bathrooms to do. I thought I'd do them this afternoon."

"No, they need to be done this morning. I'm coming home for lunch and I may have some errands for you to run this afternoon." There was a pause and I found myself feeling sick in my stomach. "I want everything done by the time I get home. If not, there'll be hell to pay. Do you understand me, little miss?"

"Yes, ma'am." I took a breath. "Um, can I still go to ball practice this afternoon?"

There was a pause. "We’ll see. It all depends on whether you get your errands run. And remind me when I get home, we're going to have to do something about your telephone manners, too."

Home for lunch? Errands to run? What the heck was going on? I was as confused as ever as I hung up the phone. Looking down at my polka dot dress, I couldn't help but shiver. This stuff was getting out of hand!

A quick look at the clock told me that I had little more than an hour to do a day's worth of housework. Plus, I had to fix my face and hair back into some semblance of a girlish look.

Stupid television!! Stupid me!!! If Mom ever found out what I was doing, I’d never even get to watch another game of baseball, much less play in one!

Before I got started I slipped out of my dress and hung it up in the kitchen; if nothing else, I knew I better look good when my mom stepped through that front door. Clad in little more than my slip, undies, heels and hose, I then went to work, finishing the ironing in record time, my previous experience proving invaluable. I did a passable job of folding the laundry and putting it away, cramming my things in my drawer to be folded when I had more time. The vacuuming I kind of skimped on, doing just enough to make it look like I'd done a good job. The dusting was a little more demanding, and I'm not even going to talk about the bathrooms. They were disgusting!

I felt so stupid running around the house in my lingerie, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. I didn’t dare change clothes ‘cause I wasn’t sure what Mom had done to spy on me; knowing her she had a secret camera stashed somewhere to make sure I didn’t go against her rules. Who knew for sure? Stuck between a rock and a hard place, I did take the time to make sure all the blinds were pulled in case any of my buddies came by.

Anyway, in spite of my embarrassment and discomfort I got it all done. Sort of. I somehow managed to make it look as though I’d made an attempt on my chores. Not that it mattered. The way I figured it, she'd probably make me do it all again anyway, so why worry too much about it.

When I heard the car pull into the driveway I grabbed my dress from it hanger and ran upstairs. I was in the bathroom touching up my makeup and hair when the front door opened and I heard my mother's voice. I was sweating like a pig — a pink pig! — I was so scared. Worried that she might see something she shouldn't — Oh, gosh, did I leave the TV on or not? — I spritzed myself with a healthy dose of perfume and hurried as quickly as possible downstairs, my heels clip-clopping on the hardwood steps like a big old horse or something. The overwhelming scent of the cologne took my breath away, but I thought maybe if Mom noticed the extra effort I put into my makeup she wouldn’t be so hard on me.

It wasn't until I was near the bottom of the steps that I realized she wasn’t alone.

"Oh, well, there's my darling daughter now. ‘Pamela,’ you know Mrs. Johnston, don't you? Glenda, this is my lovely ‘Pamela’."

I about died! Standing there at the bottom of the steps with my mom was her friend, Mrs. Johnston. Actually, her best friend, I guess I should say. Mom and Mrs. Johnston worked together at the clinic and Mrs. Johnston had become something of an aunt to Dave and me after Dad left us. Her daughter, Rita — you know, the one who saw me at the pharmacy that first night Mom made me wear lipstick in public? —she used to baby-sit us when we were little. I guess between Mom and Rita I shouldn't have been surprised that Mrs. Johnston knew all about what I was going through.

"Well, hello there, ‘Pamela’! I'm so glad to finally see you. Your mother talks about you all the time. Especially this morning. I bet your ears were burning. On the way over here all she did was brag on what pretty … daughter … she has. I just had to see for myself."

Mom put her hand on my shoulder and gave me a kiss on the cheek. "See? And here you thought I never had anything good to say about you."

Mrs. Johnston took my hand and gazed into my eyes, as though she was trying to read my thoughts. "Mmm … you smell so good! Honestly, Marilyn, he … or should I say she? … is quite stunning! Much more so than I imagined! What a difference a bit of lipstick and a nice dress make on a cute boy. If I'd seen him out in public I'd have never known this was your Greg!"

Mom beamed to hear her friend fawning over me like that. I, on the other hand, felt a sharp pain in the pit of my stomach.

"Oh, he's a sweetie all right. Some of the time. Other times, well … I just had to do something about his behavior. It seems that putting him in lipstick and a girdle makes all the difference in the world."

Mrs. Johnston looked me up and down as though she was sizing me up for her dinner. "You're teasing me. A girdle? Really. Now that's interesting. Now where did you come up such a wonderful idea?"

"Oh, it was Greg’s originally. I found his secret little collection of fashion magazines and thought maybe he’d like to find out how the other half lives."

Our guest nodded as though she’d heard all this before. Her eyes never left mine throughout the entire conversation. "I see. So you like looking at fashion magazines, sweetie? That’s so cute. How old are you, now, anyway?"

I gulped, just like in the cartoons. "Uh, thirteen. Almost fourteen."

"Almost fourteen! I swear, you look every bit of sixteen, all dolled up like that. Marilyn, you know, with the right dress and shoes, he could pass for seventeen, eighteen easily. Just look at those luscious lips and those big blue eyes …."

Needless to say, I was mortified to be the subject of such talk. And right there in front of me, like I didn’t even exist! The good news was that Mom was so busy entertaining her friend that she just glossed over inspecting the house and praised me royally on my domestic accomplishments. I was so relieved that she didn't look in my lingerie drawer (where I'd crammed everything in my haste to finish up) that I didn't mind so much when Mrs. Johnston said I would "make someone a wonderful wife."

Before we did anything else Mom took the opportunity of Mrs. Johnston’s presence to get a couple of "mother-daughter" pictures taken.

"I don’t have a single one of me with my favorite daughter," she said. "This would mean so much to me."

Before we started I was sent upstairs to put on my fairy pendant and change to my red lipstick. "For the pictures," Mom explained.

When I got back my mother made a big show out of positioning my pendant carefully between the swollen mounds formed by the bra I was wearing. Talk about humiliating! I couldn’t believe it as I was then led out onto the front porch and posed next to her in my polka dot dress and high heels. A hand full of shots were taken, including at least one with Mom giving me a kiss on the cheek.

"Come on, Greg, let's get one of you kissing your mom, too." Mrs. Johnston was ecstatic in her role as photographer and she wouldn't take no for an answer. The worst part was that she made sure that I smiled in each and every shot. Like I was having fun or something! Geez! With all that attention, I felt more like running away, but I knew the sooner I did as I was told the sooner it would all be over with.

When we were done Mrs. Johnston reached out and touched my earring, holding it gingerly. "Oooo, so pretty! And they’re pierced, too! How neat! I'm really proud of you, Greg, you know that? Experimenting with your looks and all. Not many boys are brave enough to do something like this."

Brave? Yeah, right. I fidgeted in my dress and kept my mouth shut. It wasn't like I had much choice in the matter, was it?

After a quick lunch of tuna salad and tomatoes — which I prepared, of course! — Mom told me to get my purse and touch up my makeup. I did as I was told, blushing under the scrutiny of our guest, who watched my every move with great interest.

"Well, Greg, I am certainly impressed!" Mrs. Johnston said as I snapped shut my compact and replace it and my lipstick and mascara in my purse. Mom then pulled out her makeup kit and dabbed at my cheeks with a bit of rouge, causing both women to giggle like children. "Or should I say ‘Pamela’? You’ve become quite the young lady. You'd make any mother proud. Maybe you'd like to come live with me for a while? I would love having another pretty girl running around my house."

Purse in hand, Mom put her arm around my waist and laughed. "Oh, no you don't, Glenda Johnston! I've worked too hard to let her up and run off. ‘Pamela’ and I have a lot of catching up to do. A lot of catching up to do. Besides, you already have a daughter. You'll just have to settle for a niece instead!"

Everyone had a good laugh — except me, of course! Trapped in my mother’s grasp, I just sort of stood there and felt about as stupid as you might imagine.

After waiting patiently and listening to my mom and Mrs. Johnston chatting, I started to excuse myself to go and clean up the kitchen. Instead, Mom tightened her grip around my waist and I found myself being led to the front door as though we were all leaving together. I tried to pull away as she drug me out onto the porch, but it was too late. The door was locked and we were heading for the car.

I was in a panic! "Uh, Mom, what's going on? I thought you were going back to work? I’m not going with you, am I? Please … I can't leave the house like this!"

"Oh, sure you can. I've got an errand for you to run while I go back to the clinic. And don’t worry, you look just fine the way you are. Trust me, no one will have the slightest idea that you're a boy, will they Glenda?"

"Not a chance on earth," my "aunt" said, watching me carefully as I slid into the back seat of my mom's car. "Not unless you tell them, of course." She smiled a crooked smile and gave me a wink that made my heart sink.

It turned out that the errand Mom had for me was pretty simple. One of her older friends, Mrs. McCuddy, was having trouble getting around on her own, and Mom wanted me to spend a couple of hours helping out around the house and make sure the old lady was taking care of herself. The fact of the matter was, I'd already done this before on several occasions, you know, taking out the trash, moving things into the attic and such. The only problem was … well, pretty obvious, I would think.

"But I got ball practice this afternoon!" I pleaded desperately. I couldn’t help tugging at the hem of my dress. "You promised!"

"Oh, don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of time. When you get done you can walk back home and change clothes in time for your silly practice. It's not that far, so don't give me any heartache about it, all right?" The look on my mom's face told me the matter was closed.

The next thing I knew I was dropped off in front of Mrs. McCuddy's house, left standing there in my polka dot dress and heels and holding my purse in my hands like some sort of simpering girl. My dilemma was taxing; I could either stay there, out in plain view of everyone passing by, or I could go in and face the music. Glancing down the street, I saw a group of boys approaching on bicycles. The choice was made for me.

Actually, it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. Well, considering the circumstances, I guess. Mrs. McCuddy was a very sweet old lady and when she saw me standing at the front door her face lit up and she welcomed me into her house as though there was nothing at all wrong with the way I was dressed. It turned out that while she was expecting Marilyn Parker's son, Greg, she just naturally assumed that I was the daughter instead. I went along with the charade, telling her (with a sheepish grin) that my name was ‘Pamela’, and I proceeded with my chores as though it was the most natural thing in the world for me to be doing.

Please keep in mind that while I was pretending to be my mother's daughter, I was still perfectly aware of who I was and how ridiculous my situation was. For a thirteen year old boy to spend his afternoon in heels and hose and entertaining an old lady by prancing around the house like some silly French maid or something, well, it was almost more than I could endure! My face burned bright red the entire time I was there, and a funny tingling caused me to tremble all over.

By the time I was done I was uncomfortable, sweaty and worn out! In addition to taking out the trash and moving boxes of old magazines to the attic, I was asked to clean up the hall bathroom (yuck!) and put some old clothes into bags for Goodwill. As I placed the bags on the front porch for pickup, I thought ruefully that I was lucky my mom hadn't gotten the chance to go through them; no doubt she'd found this a gold mine in terms of adding to my girlish wardrobe.

I did take time to go to the toilet while I was there, a major chore considering the difficulty I had with my girdle. Like the rest of her house, Mrs. McCuddy’s bathroom was as frilly and dainty as anything I could imagine. With mirrors and little statuettes and scented soaps everywhere, it was like a small curio shop than a bathroom. Sitting there in the middle of all those knickknacks, my skirt up about my waist and that stupid girdle tangled down around my knees, I started to appreciate the surreal nature of my predicament. I couldn’t help but stare at the reflection of the pretty girl opposite me, and I found myself visibly shaking with excitement as I realized this was probably what girls looked like when they used the toilet.

My final chore of the day was to take Mimi, Mrs. McCuddy's toy poodle, for a walk. Needless to say, I felt faint at the prospect of dragging such a prissy little dog about the neighborhood while dressed just as silly myself, but Mrs. McCuddy insisted.

"Oh, he won't bite you, dear, I promise. I usually let him out in the back yard, but he's starting to get fat. The walk around the block will do him good. Go ahead, if you please. I'm too old and it would mean so much to me if you would."

And so, there I was, Greg Parker, soon-to-be ninth grader and little league second baseman extraordinaire, clad in my newest polka dot dress, bright red lipstick, white heels and purse, being led down the sidewalk by a hyperactive, yelping curly-haired boy poodle named "Mimi." I felt so self-conscious as I stepped out onto the pavement. I tried not to cry as I knew that would only smear my mascara; nonetheless, tears burned my eyes and I had to stop at least twice to blow my nose and repair my makeup.

As I minced down the sidewalk I wondered how far I might get before being found out. I soon found that hardly anyone gave me a second look. After coming across some young children playing in a yard and a couple of women pushing baby carriages about, I realized that Mom was probably right; as long as I acted the part, people just assumed that I was what I appeared to be, in this case a young, pretty girl walking her poodle. All I had to do was nod and smile prettily whenever I passed someone, and that was it! Easy as pie!

It was unnerving to pretend to be happy about my predicament, but I forced myself to smile in spite of my embarrassment. I had to; at one point I was so upset that the look on my face caused a lady working in her yard to ask me what was wrong. I screwed my pout into smile and shook my head, but she persisted, asking if she could do anything for me; I stammered out something about it being hot outside and the next thing I knew the worried woman was offering me a seat in the shade and a glass of iced tea. I declined, of course, saying that I had to get back.

Talk about being confused! I mean, running around in public without any pants on and with polished nails and a face with lipstick and rouge … what boy wouldn’t be ashamed? On top of that, my adrenaline was flowing so thick, my nerves were so on edge, that my entire body was tingling with electricity! My legs rubbing together in their nylon stockings and the occasional gust of wind playing havoc with my skirt was extremely distracting. My senses were so overwhelmed that I found my body having the most unladylike reaction underneath my girdle. My poor thirteen year old penis was as hard as it had ever been, and all because I was made up to look and act like such a priss! It was just downright awful! Though it was unlikely that my boyish erection would be seen through the tight girdle my mother made me put on, I was actually glad I was wearing such a puffy dress!

The worst part, though, was trying to keep Mimi’s leash from tangling about my legs; more than once she almost caused me to trip, a miracle considering how much trouble I was having in my new heels. As soon as I got Mrs. McCuddy's house in sight I felt a huge burden lift from my quivering shoulders.

My relief was short-lived. It was nearly four o’clock by the time I was through with my chores and I still had to walk back to my house all by myself. I thought about calling a cab, but that would mean having to explain myself to the driver.

"No," I thought, "I just walked that stupid dog around the block, surely I can make it home without humiliating myself."

After bidding Mrs. McCuddy good day — and promising to visit again soon! — I headed off for home. The walk was about a mile, more than six blocks. I'd done it dozens, probably hundreds of times in my boy clothes; in my hose and heels, though, it seemed like a trip to the moon by comparison.

I wasn't out of sight of Mrs. McCuddy's house when I found myself being followed by some young children on bicycles. Three boys and a girl — all between eight and ten, about Dave's age — they seemed very curious about who I was and where I was going. Terrified that I might give myself away, I mostly smiled and nodded in answer to their questions, keeping my voice low whenever I needed to speak.

"Do you live near here?" was followed by "Are your Mrs. McCuddy's granddaughter" and "Do you know my mom?" I nodded and shook my head accordingly and pretended to be in a hurry, but my new friends were persistent. Soon the conversation became more personal, taking on such topics as "Do you have a boyfriend?" and "My brother’s about your age. Maybe you go to high school with him!" The little girl even asked if I’d stop and play for a while.

The questions were as embarrassing as they were funny, and I tried to ignore the worst ones, but that only caused the children to repeat them over and over again, each time louder than before. I finally gave in and started making up answers, for no other reason than to keep my entourage from attracting too much more attention.

"My name’s ‘Pamela’ … no, I don’t have a boyfriend." "I’m fifteen … no, I don’t want to go out with your brother. Because, that’s why!" "No, I don’t go to high school here. I’m just visiting my Aunt Glenda." And so on and so forth. My answers, of course, only fueled their curiosity, and the more I talked the more they wanted me to talk. I ended up wishing I’d just kept my mouth shut.

It felt weird leading this little parade of children along the sidewalk, but I kept up my pace and vowed not to stop. That was quite an accomplishment considering how my legs and feet ached from wearing high heels all day long. In addition to their questions about who I was and where I lived, the boys shyly let me know they thought I was quite pretty. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as I found myself the subject of such attention, and I resigned myself to smiling and saying a simple "Thank you" with each compliment.

My biggest fear, of course, was that they would follow me all the way to the front door of my house. I was desperately trying to figure out what to do when I was suddenly told that I would have to walk the rest of the way home; it seemed that the Maple Street intersection was as far as my escorts were allowed to go. I made a pleasant show of waving good-bye, but I was never so glad to be left by myself!

The remainder of my walk went without incident. I was pretty miserable by the time I got to the house, what with the heat and my poor feet. My girdle was just as tight as ever and I couldn’t wait to take it off and get into my baseball clothes. Heaven, I thought to myself, was only a few minutes away!

Or so I thought. As I click-clacked up the sidewalk and onto the front porch I suddenly had a thought.

I couldn't believe it! After all I'd been through, after the humiliation I'd suffered, the front door was locked … and I didn’t have a key! I was so mad — and so upset! — I couldn’t help bursting into tears. I looked through my purse a dozen times and tried the back door and even tugged at a couple of windows, but it was useless. I was stuck, and there wasn’t a thing I could do but sit down and cry.

Continue with Chapter 12 of "Lipstick Discipline"