Mum left me alone for a second whilst I fiddled and faffed with the funny little clips. “How you getting on?” she asked when she returned. My dress is in one hand. My shoes in the other. She seemed impressed that I’d clipped all four straps on myself, but it wasn’t exactly hard. I wanted to put the dress on but Mum wanted to check that my suspender straps were adjusted properly which meant removing my gown. I felt both dressed and naked as I stood there in my underwear. Mum also adjusted my bra straps to ensure they wouldn’t fall down. “Yes, of course… sorry.” she said when I corrected her and said ‘cropped vest’.
“Can I put the dress on now?” I asked.
“All in good time.” mum grinned. “There’s a blouse first.”
“A blouse?!”
“I mean shirt.” mum replied as she removed it from the big boutique bag and unfolded it. I gulped.
“Actually, it could do with an iron… you’re OK for a few more minutes aren’t you?”
“Yeah I’m fine… just getting used to my new underwear.” I sarcastically replied.
Mum grinned. “I must say I was expecting you to be huffing and puffing a bit more.”
“Well it’s just a dress… and Sally’s never had a proper girl’s birthday before so…” I replied. “The hard bits going to be when my mates at school find out about it.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that.” Mum said. “They might tease you for a bit but then they’ll find something else.” she claimed. “Sally gets teased for being girlie and she is a girl… just take a leaf out of her book and shrug it off.”
“That’s the plan.” I said as Mum erected the ironing board.
“It’s as a good a plan as any.” she said as I donned the silky gown she’d loaned me. “Chilly?”
“No… just a bit shy.” I replied as I covered my frilly little undies. Mum began ironing the shirt. I put my pink heeled shoes on and as I sat, I was taken by surprise when my suspender straps quickly slid around my hips, as if finding the shortest route between the belt and my stockings. “Is that normal?” I wondered as I fastened the buckles. They were really fiddly on Tuesday. Now they’re easy to fasten. I can’t say I like the shoes but they do go with the rest of my outfit. I’ve worn them for a few hours over the last four evenings and they’ve always looked alien and felt awkward, although less so as I persevered with them. But seeing them now, with their white lacy background, they look like they finally belong.
I wait patiently yet nervously for a few more minutes whilst mum irons the awkward garment. She’s struggling with the little puffy sleeves. At fourteen, I’ve not had to do any ironing, but I can see why it’s tricky. “Oh that’ll do.” Mum declared before passing me the unbuttoned garment.
“Thanks.” I said through a pursed smile.
“I can’t tell if you’re excited or shitting yourself.”
I was shocked that my mother had used a rude word. It really wasn’t like her. But she read my mind perfectly. “A bit of both.” I confessed as I slid out of the gown and slipped my arms through the sleeves of the blouse shirt (who am I kidding?). “Is this a boy’s blouse?” I asked. “Its buttons fasten the same way as my shirts.” I added. Even in this day and age, the buttons on women & girl’s garments tend fasten the opposite way.
“Well you didn’t think I’d buy you a load of girl’s clothes for your birthday did you?” she smiled. She held that smile whilst I buttoned my blouse. Once done, she turned her head and said. “You ready?”
My dress lay in wait on her duvet. Like a python its motionless, as if pretending to sleep… waiting until I’m close enough and it’ll strike in an instant and wrap itself around me. The reality is far slower. Mum smiles as she turns it over and unfastens the zip. Then she holds it and I carefully step inside. One foot. Then the next. Mum says nothing but I know what to do. I push my arms through its pinkness, lift it onto my shoulders, then turn and put my back to her. She slowly fastens the zip, arranges my collar and ties the the tapes in a bow at the small of my back. I watch via the dressing table mirror. “How does that feel?” she asks as she turns me to face her.
I’m almost gasping as I try to cling on to these feelings. “Beautiful.” I reply as they slip away. If I’ve learned one thing today, it’s that putting on a dress is a hell of a lot more exciting than putting on a pair of pants. I’m starting to see what Sally sees in all this old fashioned girlie girl stuff. Mum checked her wristwatch. “What time is it?” I asked.
“Quarter to one.”
“Is that all?!” I blurted. The process of styling my hair and applying my make-up seemed to takes ages & ages and thoroughly expected it to be around 2.00pm.
She led me out of her room and hollered through Sally’s bedroom door. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.” Sally hollered from the dining room.
“Careful on the stairs on those shoes.” Mum advised as I followed her down. I reminded her that I’ve had plenty of practice in the shoes. “Yes, of course.” she said.
“It’s this I’m not used to.” I said as I ran my hands down my frock. In the dining room my sister was arranging the buffet table wearing an equally pink dress. Hers is closer to knee length than mine and although very different, is equally prissy. More so possibly since hers has a huge white bow on the back. She’s put her hair in bunches and wears a pair of pink bow barrettes. It takes her a few seconds to become aware of my presence. She turns, looks and gasps before telling me that I look ‘brilliant’. I coyly thank her and play it down. “It feels OK.” I claim. “And a bit stupid.” I add a sigh to punctuate the statement.
She requests a twirl which I decline to perform. “Come on… you can’t wear a dress like that and not show it off.”
I shyly turn and she notices what Mum has done to my hair. “Oh my god you’ve got ringlets!” she gushes. “And look at your tights!” she exclaims. “They’re gorgeous! …and they look vintage.”
I’ve no idea what they are and Mum confirms that my tights are in fact vintage. I don’t know why but I pointed out that they’re not tights but ‘hold-ups’. I wish I hadn’t because Mum went on to say that being ‘vintage’ hold-ups, the hold-up technology is old and primitive and therefore don’t hold themselves up very well. Sally said I’d just have to keep an eye on them and hitch them up discreetly, like she does with her over-knee socks. Mum told her that I was wearing a suspender belt and Sally really wanted to see it. With great reluctance, I showed her but revealed as little of my frilly underpants as possible. Sally said she was jealous because she’s just wearing tights. I requested that she doesn’t ask me to show my stocking tops to the other guests when they arrive. “Your secret’s safe with me.” she assured. I could be certain that I could trust her but didn’t have much choice. “Why aren’t you wearing lipstick?” she asked.
“Er… Mum said I had to put it on after lunch.” I replied. “Something about having to re-apply it.”
“Fair enough.” Sally replied. We soon began tucking in to the off-cuts from the heart shaped sandwiches, washed down with plenty of juice. Then we continued getting the dining room ready. I helped with the décor; blowing up balloons and laying the table, stringing pink princess bunting across the ceiling and putting a pile of gaily wrapped gifts on the sideboard. I asked what they were. “They’re for pass-the-parcel… and these are the prizes for the other games.” she added. I couldn’t help but enquire further. Musical statues, blind man’s buff and a variation of pin the tail on the donkey called pin the ponytail on the princess.
“Oh dear!” I thought. “This is gonna be like a party for seven year olds.”
“That’s the plan.” she grinned. “My first ever proper girl’s party.” she grinned.
“…and hopefully the last.” I thought. I felt an urge and headed to the hallway. Mum followed and discreetly asked where I was going. “To the toilet.” I replied.
“Thought so.” Mum said, before advising me to sit down instead of standing up to avoid getting any tell-tale splashes on my dress. “And don’t forget to check that it’s not tucked into the back of your undies when you’ve finished.” she added. We’ve all seen it and it’s good advice. I finished, flushed, washed my hands, checked the back of my dress in the bathroom mirror and lingered for a moment. It’s strange looking like I do…. not horrible like I’d anticipated, just strange.
Sally wanted the balloons putting in the corners of the dining room, so being the taller of the two, I soon found myself climbing a step stool and pushing a drawing pin into the ceiling with three pink balloons attached. I repeated the process in all four corners and on the third corner, something dawned on me. “You can’t see up my dress can you?”
“No.” Sally assured. I asked if she was sure. “Of course.” she claimed. “It’s not that short.”
“It’s a lot shorter than yours.”
“It’s the same length as mine.” Sally replied. “Only you’re a bit taller than I am.”
“but you definitely can’t see?”
“Well I could if I wanted to.” she teased, lowering and twisting herself.
“Stop it.” I yelped as I hopped off the stool. “Oops… almost forgot I had heels on then.”
“You walk better than me in them.”
“No I don’t.” I insisted.
We hung the bunting across the room from wall to wall. I say ‘we’. I did all the legwork whilst Sally directed me. Mum called her into the kitchen to help with icing the numerous cup-cakes. I continued hanging the bunting and as I did so, I overheard Sally telling Mum how good I look. “I can’t believe he’s wearing stockings and a suspender belt too!” she gushed, before mentioning getting a quick glimpse of my knickers.
“They’re not knickers Sally… they’re just really nice underpants.” Mum insisted. It doesn’t matter how many time she says it, I don’t believe her. There’s no two ways about it… I’m wearing knickers! I eavesdrop on my sister questioning my mother’s claim and my mother’s explanation that she bought most of my outfit at a specialist supplier in Penton which sells Bro-lita fashions and petticoating clothes.
“Petticoating clothes?” Sally quizzed. I’d finished hanging the bunting so was sauntering into the kitchen at this point.
“For naughty boys.” our mother replied. “Boys are sometimes subjected to a punishment called ‘petticoating’, which means they have to wear pretty dresses for a day, week or longer.”
“That doesn’t sound like much of a punishment.” I commented. “I feel quite nice in this… not that I’d admit it to any of my mates.”
“Which I suppose is why it’s so effective.” Mum smiled as she passed me a plate with a big cake on it. Not surprisingly it’s decorated with baby-pink icing an on the top, in purple icing is a big number 14 and our names; Sally & Peter. I counted the candles as I took it to the dining room. “…twelve, thirteen, fourteen.” I placed it on the table. There’s no denying that this is going to be a joint birthday party and not just Sally’s.
