By the time Mom got home I was pretty much over my crying spell and more concerned about making it to ball practice in time. Mom, of course, thought nothing of the fact that I'd spent more than an hour waiting on her to show up, and she seemed more interested in hearing what happened at Mrs. McCuddy's house than she was about my being late to practice.

"That's not my concern," she said, aloof and cold. "If you want to go hang out with that bunch of rednecks and hooligans, I suppose I have to let you. You do have an obligation to the team, I suppose. I won't stop you. Now, did you do everything Mrs. McCuddy asked? I’ll find out the truth when I talk to her later tonight, so don’t lie to me."

After assuring her that I’d done all that had been asked of me and promising that I would fill in the details when I got back, I was released to go to ball practice. I changed clothes in record time, doffing my dress, lingerie and heels in favor of baseball pants, t-shirt and accessories. I ran down the steps and was on my bike before my mother could stop me.

At last, I was free! YA-HOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!

I never feel more happy than that moment, heading down the street on my bike, dressed in my boy clothes, thinking boy thoughts and psyching myself up to do nothing but boy things! I know it sounds silly, but I was never so glad in my life to be wearing a pair of jockey shorts!

I still had one more obstacle to overcome. Mom wouldn't let me take off my nail polish. I guess she thought that would discourage me from going. But I outsmarted her; I still had my batting gloves and I figured hiding my painted nails would be a cinch, especially after I dragged them through the dirt a few times.

The great irony of all this is that after all of my hard work and planning, practice wasn't all it was cracked up to be. In fact, it was one of the worst days I’d ever had. First thing, Coach Wasser kept looking at me kinda funny, and I couldn't understand why he substituted in Spanky Cleveland on second and sent me to left field. Nothing ever happened in left field, and I got the feeling that the coach was mad at me for some reason or other.

The next thing that happened was that Spanky and Chris Wasser — the coach’s son and our star shortstop — kept looking at me and giggling. I couldn't figure out what their problem was until I accidentally wiped my mouth on the sleeve of my t-shirt. A smear of red caught my eye, and I suddenly felt sick.

"What's the matter with you guys?" I said in my most challenging tone of voice. "See something you don't like? Try looking in a mirror!"

"What's that you're wearing, Gregor-ina?? Your momma makin' ya wear lipstick again, prettyboy?"

My stomach did a flip-flop. After all this time they still remembered about my mom sending me to school with lipstick on. I’d always thought people had forgotten about that. I wanted to go punch them out, but I decided to take a more subtle route instead.

"It ain't lipstick! It's Kool-Aid! My mom made some for me before I came here, you freaks …" My voice trailed off as the echo of laughter surrounded me. I wiped my mouth again, leaving a huge trail of bright red waxy stuff on my sleeve. This just wasn't working out the way I'd planned ….

The straw that broke the camel’s back came when Mikey Curtis was pitching and he hit me upside the head while I was at bat. Oh, sure, I was on my second strike and hadn’t hit anything all night, but that was no excuse to bean me with the ball! Mikey was a better pitcher than that and it sure looked to me like he’d done it on purpose.

I couldn't help crying all the way home from practice that evening. My life was falling apart and I didn't know what to do. Coach Wasser and Coach Stanton had ridden me all evening about keeping my mind on the game and not picking fights with the other guys; I was furious because they didn't see how every time they turned their backs one of the other boys would pinch me or call me a fairy or something equally hurtful. Finding a "Barbie" sticker stuck on my bike after practice topped everything. Baseball was fast losing its appeal to me, and as I got closer to home I wondered if I should even try to go back.

When I entered the house Mom and Dave were sitting on the couch. Mom was reading aloud to my brother, and for the first time in a long time I found myself jealous of the attention she was showing him. I thought about how earlier in the day she'd put her arm around my waist and bragged on me to Mrs. Johnston, and I wondered if it was all right to think that was good.

Without mentioning a word about baseball, Mom ordered me upstairs. The look in her eyes told me that something was wrong … something deadly wrong. I gave Dave a glance. Just from the way he smiled at me — dog-gone it! — I knew I was done for.

I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes as I sauntered up the stairs. The little brat … he'd squealed to her about the fight we had that morning. I knew it from the grin on his face! After all I'd been through, after doing my chores and helping old Mrs. McCuddy and everything, I was still in trouble. Damn it! It just wasn't fair. I started to say something, but my mother gave me another cold stare; I did as I was told, silent and fearful of what the future might hold for me.

I went into my room and undressed. I looked at my baseball shirt for a moment and wondered if I would ever get to wear it again. I then tossed it in the hamper with the rest of my dirty clothes. I looked at the freshly laundered girdle laying on my bed and I started to cry.

Mom showed up just as I was putting on my bra. I looked about for something to cover myself, but I was out of luck. The look on her face was one of wry amusement. I found that scary.

"Well, if it isn’t my son, the big man." A chill went down my spine. This wasn’t going to be good, not at all. "Oh, look. He’s back from his wonderful baseball practice. Did you have a good time? Well, little mister, I hope you did, because that might just very well be the last baseball practice you ever go to."

Salty tears burned my eyes as I stood nearly nude and helpless before my mom. Just from the way she was looking at me I could tell she was looking for a reason to punish me and if I wasn’t careful I was about to get the beating of a lifetime. For some reason I found it hard to breathe. Between sobs I promised myself that I would do whatever it took to keep her from getting even angrier.

Too late.

SLAP! I broke out crying as I nursed my inflamed cheek. To make things even worse, my nose started running. The taste of salt on my tongue made me cringe. I felt just awful.

"I understand you and Dave had a little fight this morning? Is that true? I also understand that you said some pretty ugly things to him. Is that true, too?"

WHACK! I almost fell, but I kept my balance. I frantically nodded my head. There was no use denying it. Even if he was lying, she’d take his side.

"Yes, ma’am, that’s true. I-I-I’m sorry, Mom. He j-just … he just kept making fun of me. I’m sorry I lost my temper, but he made me mad. I won’t do it again. I promise, I won’t."

My mom looked at me and blinked. The look in her eyes was almost a happy one. For a moment I thought she was about to give me a hug, but then ….

"Did you actually tell him you hoped he’d drown? Did you? Don’t lie to me, it’ll just make things worse!"

I was nearly hysterical. Drowned? What’s she talking about? I covered my face with my hands but my mom pulled them away. Oh, God, did I say that? I did! Oh, geezus, I did,say that, didn’t I? How could I be so stupid!?

Desperately, I admitted that I’d said it, pleading that I didn’t mean it. I tried to tell her it was just some stupid thing guys say. That didn’t make things any better. With her open hand my mother rained blows all over my nearly naked body, slapping me across the face, on my lycra-covered bottom and my legs. With each blow she told me how evil I was, how thoughtless I was and how ashamed she was to have me for her son.

I remember wondering how much worse things might have been had I lied.

At last she paused to catch her breath, leaving me kneeling on the floor with my hands covering my face, which was hot and wet with tears and snot.

I quickly begged for mercy. I knew it was probably my only chance. "P-p-please, Mom … don’t hit me anymore … please! I’m sorry, I really am! I’ll do whatever you say, I promise. I’ll do whatever you say! I-I-I promise!"

My mother raised one eyebrow and made a face. "Promises are cheap, and I don’t think you have a very good track record. I’d like to believe you. I really would, but you’re probably lying to me. Again! Want to know why I think that way? Come here, I want you to explain something to me."

Bra straps askew, my bare skin tender and stinging from being slapped all over, I watched helplessly as my mother pulled open the drawers to my dresser. The way she reached in and pulled out my new underthings and scattered them about scared me. To see the air filled with flying panties and girdles was nothing to laugh about. I knew that things were about to go from bad to worse.

"See all this? You were supposed to fold them up. I trusted you, but you lied to me. You told me you had your chores done. But you didn’t, did you? You lied, and then you took off to your ball practice anyway. What else have you lied to me about? What am I supposed to believe?"

"Nothing, I …"

SLAP!!! The palm of her hand caught me just right and I lost my balance, falling to my knees about as fast as tears burned my eyes. I braced myself for another blow, but instead felt her getting a grip on my hair. I stood up as quick as I could to keep her from pulling it out.

"I won’t tolerate your bullying your little brother and I will NOT put up with your lying, do you understand me? Especially the lying. Lying is the one thing I will not endure, from you, from your brother, from that good for nothing father of yours … not from anyone! Do you hear me!!!???"

Balancing on my tiptoes, I opened my eyes just in time to see a strange smile come over my mom’s face. "Now, what else have you lied about? Tell me, or so help me I’ll take you out in the back yard, pull your little panties down, get me a switch and whip you so hard you’ll wish you were never born!"

Sobbing hysterically, I confessed how I’d goofed off that morning and spent more time watching television than working on my chores. I told my mom that I’d thought I had all day to do my housework, not just the morning, and that I meant to do them. I just didn’t have enough time.

"Typical man," she said, her voice tinged with disgust as she rapped me on the head with her knuckles. "Sounds just like a man talking. Always going to put it off ‘til later and then lie about it when it doesn’t get done. You are most certainly your father’s child all right. That’s for damn sure!"

In my defense I did explain that I did everything else that day just the way she told me. I went to Mrs. McCuddy’s and cleaned her bathrooms and did all of my chores, just like I was supposed to. I even told her how I walked the dog around the block, as much as it pained me to. Judging from the sparkle in her eye she believed me, even though she threatened me with another beating if she found out otherwise.

"Come with me, little man. I’m going to show you what’s going to happen every time I catch you in a lie."

Padding barefoot into the bathroom, I watched with dread as Mom opened up a fresh bar of Dove soap, one of those small candy bar sized ones you take on trips. My stomach did a flip-flop as she handed it to me. It felt waxy in my hand and the scent of perfume sent a shiver through my body.

"Remember this?" I nodded. "Good. You ought to. I want you put that in your mouth. Go ahead, the whole thing. Do it, if you know what's good for you."

"But, Mom, I …"

SLAP!!! The blow against my face stunned me, bringing out a fresh batch of tears.

"Do you want to continue playing ball this summer? You do? Do you want me to send you to a game in lipstick and a dress? Oh, you don't? Then do as I say! Put that soap in your mouth and eat it. The whole thing. I want you to wash out every last dirty, filthy, nasty word in that mouth of yours, and then I want you to wash it again, just to make sure you got them all. Do you understand me?"

Nursing my aching cheek, I took the hint. As bad as I knew this would be, I’d rather eat an entire bar of soap that have my mother hit me again.

"You better do a good job, little mister, or I'll find some other way to make you sorry."

I was miserable and sick by the time I was through. The good news was that it was a small bar of soap and I was able to get it down fairly quickly. The bad new was I thought I was going to die, my stomach hurt so bad. It was a good thing I hadn't had supper or I might have thrown up. Between the bits of soap stuck between my teeth and the suds that found their way up my nose and my sinuses, I was nauseous to the point of gagging. Mom just stood over me and watched, her face a stone mask as I sputtered and spit into the sink.

"Keep it up, sonny boy, and you'll find yourself dealing with more than just some soap for your dinner. I've other ways to catch your attention, and I'm more than willing to use them. Now, take a bath and get ready for bed. You've a long day ahead of you tomorrow, and I want you fresh and ready to go at the crack of dawn."

I was lying in bed, nursing a gurgling stomach when Mom came to check on me. I think she was surprised to lift the sheet and see me wearing my bra and girdle. After the beating I’d gotten I’d put them back on, just in case. I didn’t want any more problems between us.

"Good girl, 'Pamela.' I see you remembered my little lecture last night. Remember what I said about keeping your hands from between your legs," she warned. "If I find out that you’re back to your nasty ways … well, it’s not going to be pleasant.

Mom then handed me a glass of water and told me to take sip. The smell of Dove soap still burned my nose. While I washed away the suds in my mouth she sat on the edge of my bed and began brushing my hair, as though nothing at all was wrong or ever had been between us.

While Mom played with my hair she told me she’d talked on the phone to Mrs. McCuddy. To my relief she’d gotten a good report on "Pamela’s" behavior. My mother seemed quite impressed by what she heard and she actually laughed when I told her my version of what had happened. When I said Mrs. McCuddy thought I was a real girl, she grinned from ear to ear.

"Sweetie, she may be old, but she’s not stupid. She knows you're a boy. Why shouldn’t she, she’s known you all her life, you silly thing. She just didn’t want to hurt your feelings when you showed up in that polka dot dress and your little purse. She said you were very cute."

I felt my face burn with shame. How could I be so foolish? I thought things went too smoothly. "She knew? What … I mean, did she wonder why I was wearing … a dress?"

Mom’s eyes lit up. "Oh, sure. She was really curious about that. I just told her this is a little game you’re playing for the summer. She said you could come over as ‘Pamela’ any time you wanted. In fact, she wants you to come over at least twice a week to help her with her chores."

Great. Now I had people thinking I was dressing up like a girl because I wanted to. Perfect.

"So, if she could tell I was a boy, then what about everybody else?"

My mother smiled. "Everybody else? Like who?"

I went on to tell Mom about taking Mimi for a walk around the block and how nobody seemed to pay much attention to me. She said that was probably because they didn’t know me like Mrs. McCuddy did, so they just assumed I was a real girl. That made me feel a little better.

"Even if they did recognize you, well, that’s just something you’d have to deal with. You’re the one who got himself in this pickle, you know. You're a good liar, make up something. It shouldn't be that hard for you to explain to people why you're wearing a dress."

My mom’s haphazard air about me wearing girls’ clothes in public worried me. Even more bothersome, she was really curious about how I felt about it and she questioned me thoroughly on the subject. When I told her it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, she smiled in a way that made me smile back. She kept asking about things like how I felt walking around in my new dress and how did I manage the dog’s leash and my purse and did I like fooling the people I met; I finally confessed that I had fun — well, a little bit, I guess — which was exactly what she wanted me to say all along.

"Now, see! Dressing up in sissy dresses and panties and wearing nasty old lipstick isn’t so bad after all, is it? Girls can have fun, too. Pretend girls especially! Wasn’t it fun to go around in disguise like that, knowing that everyone you met didn’t have a clue as to who you really were? That had to be pretty exciting!"

I felt my face turning red. Mom was right, and she knew it. She knew and I knew it; as much as I hated to admit it, I’d actually enjoyed our little game, if only for a bit. But that was all it took.

There was a scary tightness under my panty girdle. I about died as I realized my erection was coming back! This was getting embarrassing, to say the least! I shrugged my shoulders and rolled over on my side to keep my mom from seeing anything that might get me in trouble.

"I guess it was fun. A little bit. Do you think I really fooled them all? It was pretty strange, the way people treated me. They acted like I was really fragile or something. Like they thought I might break if they talked too loud."

"Sounds to me like you answered your own question. They wouldn’t have acted like that if they knew you were a boy, would they? I mean, how do you think they would have acted if they knew you were a boy in a dress?"

I blushed even more deeply. "Uh, I guess they’d point at me and laugh. Or at least give me a funny look."

"And that didn’t happen, did it? That’s because you not only looked the part, but you played the part. That’s even more important, playing out the part of the girl. Let’s face it, sweetie. You make a much better girl than you do a boy. Much, much better. Ask Mrs. Johnston. She thinks I ought to keep you in dresses all the time. Too bad this is just for the summer."

Before she could go any further I suddenly excused myself and ran for the bathroom. The soap, it seemed, had run through my system, and a series of sharp spasms gave me just enough warning to keep from embarrassing myself. I remember Mom standing at the door as I sat on the toilet, moaning and groaning in agony. She said something about me being old enough to get the cramps, but I didn’t pay much attention at the time. I was in too much pain.

"When you get through, sweetie, get some sleep," she said with a soft smile. "We’ll talk about this some more later."

Moaning and crying quietly, I spent the remainder of the evening perched on the toilet and wondering when all this was going to come to an end.

The days that followed were as rigid as they were long. Each morning I had to get out of bed before everyone else, wash up and get dressed and then get my mother up in time for her to eat and get ready for work. Since this was during summer vacation my little brother got to sleep in late every day, of course, but I was expected to fix his breakfast as well my mother’s, and with no fussing, either.

It took a while for me to get used to clip-clopping around in my girdle, bra, dress and heels each day, but with all the chores I had to get done I had a lot more to worry about than what I was wearing. For instance, preparing breakfast was only a small part of my morning routine. While the coffee was percolating and the toast was browning, for instance, I’d have to iron Mom’s uniform for the day and hang it on her bedroom door. Sometimes I’d have to touch up her shoes; if they were scuffed too badly this would take a long time and I’d have to be careful not to get white polish on my dress and hose.

Getting Dave out of bed sometimes meant getting into an argument with him, and I’ll be darned if I didn’t get yelled at by my mom every time it happened. After all I’d been through, ‘Pamela’ still didn’t rate over my little brother, and so I learned to negotiate and cajole as part of the process, thus avoiding any unnecessary shouting matches, and in turn getting yelled at or my face slapped for being mean to my brother.

While she ate breakfast Mom always updated her list of chores and errands for me to take care of while she was at work. I learned to take careful notes as she continued to be quite unforgiving when it came to my usual boyish forgetfulness. I don’t want to bore you with all the details, but if you’ve followed along this far you might be interested in some of the things she had me doing. A typical list would include some combination of the following:

-Clean up morning breakfast dishes, take out trash

Of course, a typical day didn’t necessarily include everything on this list, but sometimes it sure seemed like it did ... and then some! Sometimes Mom would give me an impossible list of things — apparently in hopes that I'd mess something up and in turn earn some sort of punishment — but I always managed to get everything done. Things were bad enough that I was determined to avoid getting into any more trouble. I felt a peculiar sense of pride each time my mother complimented me on my work and treated me such things as a bowl of chocolate ice cream just before bedtime.

"Isn’t this nice, 'Pamela'?" she’d say as we’d sit in the kitchen and enjoy our desserts together. "I think we’re really on to something here, don’t you? I said it before and I’ll say it again, I should have done this a long time ago."

As upset I was about the way my life was going, I had to admit it, chocolate ice cream tasted a heck of a lot better than Dove soap.

Mom seemed to sincerely enjoy spending time with me, and I found her at my side every moment of the day when she was home. Our afternoons and evenings usually consisted of sitting at the kitchen table and doing our nails and listening to her talk about work or her friends or her friends’ friends. One of her favorite things was have me experiment with her makeup, and I have to admit that I even had a little fun trying out different colors of eye shadow and lipsticks, even if they did make me look pretty goofy.

Mom also enjoyed going through her magazines and catalogs and talking about the new fashions. She’d often suggest that we should take another shopping trip together, which I always begged against; she knew I was terrified of going out in public again in a dress and she often teased me about how much fun I’d have at the mall, trying on this or that outfit. Instead, I rarely, if ever, left the house.

I did get to watch television with my mom, but that was always some stupid musical or old black and white romance that I could have cared less about. Programs about home and garden projects were among her favorites, as were soap operas and ice skating shows. As distasteful as I found most of those programs, it was television, so I never passed up the chance to watch, no matter how boring it might be.

My weakness for television, in fact, was turned into a horrible joke when Mom started making me keep up with her daily "stories" for her. Every afternoon I had to watch a two-hour block of soap operas and then give her a detailed briefing in the evening about what was happening with each storyline. Talk about tedious!!! It took me two weeks to just figure out the characters alone. And keeping the plots straight was a nightmare! Still, Mom insisted, and each night after supper I found myself giving her a briefing about the various divorces, love triangles and pregnancies that went on, followed by an intense question and answer session to make sure I didn’t miss a minute of each show.

In retrospect I suspect my mother couldn’t have cared less about the soaps; she made me go through all that grief mostly out of meanness, and perhaps as her way of keeping me from getting into any boyish mischief. Remember, this was long before the advent of video recorders and cable TV; in order for me to do all that she asked, I actually had to sit through tortuous hour after hour of melodrama and detergent commercials when I could have been sneaking out and playing ball with my friends. The fact that Mom’s stories were on at the same time as my own favorites was no doubt by design, too, forcing me to miss out on all of the action adventure shows boys my age were expected to watch.

It became obvious that my mother was keeping me under her thumb to keep me from getting into too much mischief during the long summer days. It was also pretty clear that she was doing everything she could to keep me alienated from my friends; or, as she so eloquently referred to them as "those little bastards." She did let me stay on the ball team, but she never attended any of my games and in fact she often made me late because of one reason or another. She also made sure I never had time to practice pitching or batting at home, saying that she had more important things for me to do around the house. Coach Wasser made note of my tardiness and my inability to keep up with the other boys, and it wasn’t long before I found myself permanently assigned to left field.

"I don’t know why you even bother," Mom said when I complained about the other boys making fun of me during one particular game. I’d struck out every time I was at bat, and Coach put me on the bench for most of the innings. "It’s dirty and nasty and I don’t like you doing it. I think next year I’m going to get you piano lessons instead."

"But even girls play softball," I whined.

My mom considered my response for a moment, then shrugged. "Then maybe you should try out for their team instead. At least you’d have more in common with your teammates."

Mom obviously didn’t have too high an opinion of the boys I hung around with that year and she was determined to make sure that I didn’t spend any more time with them than necessary. If I wasn’t playing ball I was confined to my "girlie clothes" as she so fondly referred to them. More than once I hid in my room, clad in whatever dress my mother had picked out for me, petrified with terror as my friends pounded away forever on the front door, hollering for me to come out and play. There was absolutely no way I was going to answer the door — if they’d seen me in my borrowed frock and girdle, I doubt that I’d have lived through the shame to write any of this for you to read.

The one good thing about being worked so hard was how quickly the days went by. Oh, sure, I’d fuss and complain and sulk when Dave would plop his butt down in front of the television or run out the door to play with his friends. Of course, I didn’t have time to fret too much since Mom would be home in a few hours and there was still a floor to wax or ironing to be done. And I would do anything to avoid another scolding or a slap across the face!

Ultimately, keeping up with my chores always earned me the greatest dividends, the most valuable being my mother’s approval. I grew fond of seeing her smile at me, and there were those increasingly frequent hugs and kisses that caused me to just melt. Even if it meant looking and acting like a complete nerd, I was willing to do pretty much anything she wanted if it meant keeping peace in the family.

After those first couple of weeks my mom started making me do some really weird stuff. Uh-oh, I know what you’re thinking, but it wasn’t anything like that! What I’m talking about was much more subtle yet just as effective in changing the way I thought and the way I saw the world.

On days when my workload was light — and there weren’t many of those, believe me! — I was put to work studying. Yeah, that’s right, studying! As if that wasn’t bad enough, the really bad news is that my mother didn’t have me working on stuff like math and geography. Instead, she’d hand me the latest copy of "Seventeen" or sometimes one of her women’s magazines like "Glamour" or "Ladies Home Journal" and instruct me to read at least one article, sometimes three or four, depending on my workload.

"There’s a lot more to these magazines than the pretty pictures," she explained. "I want you to understand that. They weren’t meant for dirty little boys to jerk off to. They were meant females to learn from and to enjoy. This will be a wonderful way for you to understand what it takes for women and girls to get along in this world. Too many men take the female species for granted and that’s not going to happen in this house."

I looked at the stack of magazines laying on the dining room table and blanched. A shiver ran down my spine as I tried to imagine wasting my time actually reading such drivel. I’d much rather spend time with my "Spiderman" comics.

"But, Mom, do I have to? This stuff is boring! I’m not a real girl, you know."

My mother smiled. "No, you may not be a real girl, but you certainly do look like one, and you’re starting to even act like one, too. I want you to know how a girl thinks, as well. Oh, quit pouting, I don’t know what your problem is. Look at it this way, sweetie. You’re getting to do something none of your little ruffian friends will ever do. Just think how much fun it’s going to be to learn all our girlie secrets. I bet none of your buddies have the slightest idea what it takes to make a girl happy. You're actually very lucky."

"Oh, that’s just great, Mom. Lucky me." My sarcasm was pretty obvious, but my mother just smiled. She knew she’d won … and there wasn’t a darned thing I could do about it!

Naturally, Mom always picked the articles I read, usually on something really dumb like "Rules for Summer Fashion Success" or "10 Easy Ways to a Clearer Complexion" or "Recipes for the Hot Days Ahead." It would be my responsibility to memorize as much of the information as possible and prepare to be quizzed upon her return that evening. That's where the studying came in.

Picture a thirteen year old boy in a dress, lipstick and heels, seated at the dining room table and poring carefully over the latest "Seventeen" or "Glamour," taking notes and checking facts as he would a final exam at school. Yeah, that was me, all right. While my friends all ran around outside and rode their bikes and played baseball, I was busy learning about color coordination, moisturizers and conditioners, and how to fix a chicken dinner in half an hour.

At first my mom's quizzes were oral, conducted while she sat at the kitchen table and sipped a cup of coffee and I worked on the evening meal. If I did good, I’d get a pat on the head and a smile or sometimes one of those expensive chocolates she kept in the cupboard; if I didn’t do good, my punishment might range from a scolding to a fierce slap across the face for being "lazy" and "good for nothing."

What happened next was my own fault. There’s no other way to describe it. You see, in my effort to please my mother, I worked hard on my studies and went out of my way to make sure I could answer each and every question during her quizzes. I was hoping she’d realize I’d learned my lesson and could be trusted in the house alone. From there I hoped to be allowed back in my boy clothes and out on my own. Unfortunately, things backfired. Mom decided that since I was doing so well I should do additional "research" for "extra credit."

It wasn’t long before I was writing essays — yeah, that’s right, essays! — on ridiculous topics such as "Stockings or Pantyhose: Which is a Girl’s Best Friend?" and "Why My Favorite Lipstick Color is …." The length of each essay varied, but none were shorter than two handwritten pages. I think the longest was ten. All I know is that my hand was often cramped from so much writing.

The first couple of assignments were literally painful for me to do. Mom insisted that each essay be written with enthusiasm as well as knowledge of the subject matter, a difficult task for a thirteen year old boy who’d rather be flying model rockets than comparing nail polish colors. Penmanship as well as writing style was graded, which made things even more difficult; elaborate curly-Q’s and I’s dotted with hearts became the order for the day. As a result, it took me nearly a week to get two stupid pages written about the proper way to apply lipstick. I must have written fifty pages in all, with my mother trashing each draft at the sight of the simplest mistake.

Mom handed back my latest effort, her nose up in the air as though she was disgusted. "This sounds more like you’re writing instructions for painting a house than your lips. I know you’re just a boy, but surely you can do better than that. You’ve been wearing lipstick for a long time. Think about all you’ve learned and try it again."

"But, Mom …." I tried telling her I was doing the best I could. The truth was I was just fudging, hoping that she’d give up and I wouldn’t have to give in to such ridiculous talk … and thoughts.

My strategy failed one evening when my mother read my latest and worst draft. I’d purposely written it pretty badly, a final attempt to convince her that I wasn’t going to be able to produce the kinds of thoughts she expected. She was so upset she lost her temper and slapped me silly and sent me to bed without supper. The next morning I gave in and pretended that wearing lipstick was the most fun thing in the world … the result was an essay that made my mother beam with pride.

Here’s a couple of paragraphs from that essay. This is from a page in my mom’s scrapbook, written with a fountain pen in all of the appropriate flourishes:

See what I mean? Pretty disgusting stuff, huh? Can you imagine a thirteen year old second baseman writing something like that? Of course not! Some of what you just read was actually dictated to me by my mother, plus I stole some stuff from one of my fashion magazine. The rest I came up with. Of course, I had to rewrite it so many times I found myself mouthing the words with each draft and in turn adding more of my own ideas. Which, in retrospect, I’m sure was my mom’s plan all along.

The main reason I hated writing about stuff like this was I had a very real fear that I might actually start thinking that way. And guess what? I was right! The moment I gave up resisting my mother and started writing my own little essays about fashion and makeup, I started thinking that taking part in such feminine rituals wasn’t so bad after all. I even started adding little smiley faces in the hearts I drew, just for fun.

"Very good, sweetie," Mom said after reading one of the essays that would eventually find its way into her scrapbook. "If you keep this up we just might turn you into a real girl after all."

I gave her a practiced smile and nodded. Inside, I felt sick ….

Continue with Chapter 15 of "Lipstick Discipline"