The next batch of images are from Saturday and showed him wearing shorts with tights, leggings with shorts, skinny T shirts, vest tops, blouses, jumpers, jeans, trousers and pedal pushers. Knowing that we’re viewing them photographs in reverse order, Mum noticed that I’d eased him in slowly rather than putting him straight into my skirts and dresses.
Peter returned from the bathroom and realising that we’re looking at all the pictures of him modelling my clothes, he once again sought assurance that they wouldn’t be shown to anyone else. We assured him we wouldn’t, but Mum managed to put the fear of god into him when she said she’d like prints of some of them. “Especially the pale green tea dress.” she added. “It’d be nice on top of the telly.”
“Please don’t Mum.” he nervously begged.
“I’m only joking.” she grinned. Peter looked positively relieved. “So… apart from the trauma of wearing girl’s clothes and make-up, have you enjoyed playing dress-up this weekend?” Mum asked.
“I’ve endured it.” Peter dryly retorted.
Mum and I grinned. I suggested that the experience wasn’t ‘that’ bad and reminded him that he applied his own make-up a couple of times and did an admirable job for a beginner. I also reminded him that he quickly became adept tottering about in high heeled shoes, and that he ‘quite liked’ some of my skirts, tops and frocks such as the pale blue dungee-dress, the distressed denim skirts, etc.
“Only because they were better than the rest.” Peter claimed. “I wouldn’t ‘choose’ to wear them.”
As we chatted, Mum continued skipping back through the photographs. “You could certainly get away with wearing some of Emma’s old jeans.” she said. “You also suit some of her tops and T-shirts too.” she added.
“Some of ’em were OK I guess… the plain ones.” Peter replied. “But they’re still girl’s clothes.”
“No one would notice.” Mum claimed.
“I am supposed to be selling them remember.” I reminded my mother. “Giving them to Peter doesn’t exactly help my wardrobe fund.”
“Yeah.” Peter agreed. “Anyway can we talk about something else… I’ve spent all weekend dressing as a girl so I’d rather not spend all week talking about it.”
“Fair enough.” I said. “Are you still up for helping me crop and edit the photos?” I asked.
“Yeah I guess.” he replied. “How long do you think that’ll take?”
“I dunno… half the time if there’s two of us doing it.”
Mum handed my camera back to me and we watched TV for a while. Being a school night for my brother, he took himself up to bed at around nine-thirty. I wasn’t far behind since I’m at college. I booted up my laptop and connected my camera to transfer the hundreds of photographs onto its hard-drive. I should have borrowed Peter’s USB stick and transferred half to that for him to edit, but figured it’d be just as easy to put them on a CD-R.
By the time I woke on Monday morning, all the pictures had transferred. I selected all to burn to disc and set that going before heading down for breakfast. Peter’s perched at the breakfast bar, chomping on a bowl of cereal. He’s wearing his school uniform and I smile to myself, recalling the previous day when he sat there wearing my school uniform. He told me he’d used the deep-cleansing lotion on his face again but is worried that it’s still obvious that he’d been wearing make-up. Whilst there is a vague trace of the pale pink pigment trapped deep within his pores and an echo of his eye-liner, I assured him that no one would notice. “…we can only see it because we know… everyone else is non the wiser.” I told him.