Having spent to morning and early afternoon clearing the dusty garage, both my sister and I were in need of a shower and a change of clothes. I returned to my room wearing my bathrobe and found Mother giving my ‘desk’ an application of furniture polish. “It looks as good as new now.” she said. Apart from a few light scratches it’s in pristine condition. The top and drawer fronts have some intricate marquetry and the legs and mirror stands are all scrolled. It’s both elegant and feminine. I opened my underwear drawer to grab a clean pair of knickers, but the drawer was empty. “I’ve put them in here.” Mother told me, opening the drawers on the side of the dressing table to reveal one with my knickers in, one with my bras and one with my socks inside. She took the liberty of handing me a pair of knickers and one of my sisters old training bras.
“Oh do I have to wear a bra Mother?” I asked in a whiny voice.
“Well there’s no point having them if you’re not going to wear them.”
“But…” I began.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I moaned. “You know I don’t want all this girlie stuff but it doesn’t matter what I want.”
“It’s for the best Matthew.” Mother replied. “There’s been plenty of studies and they all show that petticoated boys work harder at school and are less disruptive.”
“I know but… now I have to dress as a girl at home too.” I said. “I feel like I’m being punished for something I haven’t done.”
“It’s not a punishment Mathew.” Mother insisted as she sat besides me. “Far from it.” she stated as she put her arm around my shoulder. “Petticoating expands your horizons. It gives you more, not less…”
“More girl stuff!” I abruptly interjected.
“Exactly.” Mother replied. “Girls have been encouraged to do boy things for decades… now it’s your turn to try some girl things.” she told me. “You should think yourself lucky that you’re getting opportunities that most boys don’t have.”
Mother and I have had this conversation numerous times since it was revealed that I’d be attending a ‘mixed’ girl’s school. All she can see is the positive aspect whilst I can’t help but see the negatives. “I wonder what my friends back in Ashford would think if they knew?”
“I expect they’d think like a typical boy would.” Mother replied. “They’d most likely laugh and call you names.”
“Exactly!”
“But given the opportunity…” Mother continued, “…they’d soon realise that it’s not as bad as they think.”
“You reckon?”
“I do.” Mother replied. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if your old school adopts educational petticoating within the next two or three years.” she suggested.
This, I reluctantly agree with. Ashford Academy was one of the first schools to adopt EP in recent years and since then, more and more high schools have adopted the practice. I explained to my mother that I don’t mind being petticoated at school so much, “…it’s just the rest of the time I don’t like.”
“Oh you’ll get used to it.” Mother assured. She pulled me in and hugged me close. I hugged her back. Mother released her grip and asked me if I was going wear something ‘nice’ for the rest of the day, “…or are you going to be a boring old stick in the mud?”
“I dunno.” I replied. “I suppose I should wear something ‘nice’… if that’s what you want.”
I spent the rest of the day wearing my sisters old long sleeved CND T shirt and a knee length denim skirt. On my feet I wore white ankle socks and my trusty old trainers. In comparison to my boy clothes the outfit felt uncomfortable, but compared to my school uniform the longer casual skirt and boyish top felt OK. I think I preferred yesterday’s shorts and leggings though.
Over the next few weeks I spent less time at home wearing my old clothes and more time wearing my sister’s cast off’s. Given the choice I prefer the casual styles but that doesn’t stop Mother from putting me in something pretty once or twice a week; the ivory button back blouse with oodles of lacy trim being a garment that I particularly despise. I had a private moan to my sister about some of the outfits Mother chooses for me. “Why can’t she just let me wear what I like?” I asked.
Jane empathised and told me that it’s a mother’s prerogative. “She makes me wear clothes I don’t like too you know.” she claimed. “When I wear something like ‘really’ pretty it’s because Mother told me to wear it.”
“I thought you liked all that stuff.”
“Not really.” Jane said, screwing her nose a little. “It’s nice if it’s an occasion.” she admitted, “…but most of the time I’d rather wear jeans and a sloppy top.”
“Me too.” I said. “I’m dreading Prom week.”
“Now that’s just the sort of occasion where it’s nice to dress up.” my sister told me, adding that she’d rather wear a proper gown than a party dress. “Is Mother going to buy you something or are you going to borrow one of mine?”
“She was threatening to take me shopping for one of my own… but I think I’d rather borrow one of yours… if I’m allowed.”
“Well I don’t mind.” my sister said. “We could go and have a look if you want.”
“Now?”
“Why not? The Prom’s only a week away.” my sister said.