Thankfully, my mother left the topic alone for a while. But that didn’t stop me from spending every moment thinking about it and cursing myself for not refusing the hypnosis. An hour or so later she told me that she’d called the school and told them that I wouldn’t be in today. “Why?” I asked. Apart from feeling a bit glum, I’m fine.
“Because you’re down in the dumps.” she replied. “And instead, I thought it might be nice to go and buy you the girl’s uniform… then you can wear it tomorrow.”
“You are joking… right?”
“Of course I am.” she grinned.
“Phew.”
“But if your dreams are anything to go by… that could be exactly what you want.” she added.
Adopting my most serious tone, I assured my mother that that’s the last thing I want. “They’re more like nightmares than dreams.” I gulped.
“Yes I suppose they could be.” she replied.
Mum left me at home when she popped back into town. She didn’t want me being seen since I’m supposedly ‘under the weather’ and off school. I didn’t want to go anyway. But when she returned I wished I had gone because the diary she’d bought me is more suited to the person in my dreams than it is me.
“I’m sorry but I couldn’t resist it.” my mother said when I expressed my disapproval. “It’s entirely appropriate when you think about it.” she grinned.“I don’t want to think about that.” I moaned. “Did you take the cassette with you?” I asked.
“Yes. I listened to it again in the car.” she told me, before asking I’d wanted to listen to it whilst she was gone.
“No… I wanted to destroy it.” I told her.
“Well it’s a good job I took it with me than isn’t it?” she said, before informing me that it’s just a copy and she could get another one from the doctor if need be. I asked why she wanted to listen to it again and she said she was looking for clues as to ‘why’ I keep having my very strange dreams.
The next day I didn’t have anything to write in my diary. But I did go back to school. By the end of the week I’d put two entries in it… another school girl dream and one about going on holiday and loosing my case. “Can you remember what you wore on holiday?” Mum asked. I vaguely could and she suggested I write down what I could recall. I didn’t really want to but I did:
Thursday – Dreamt about going on holiday. Not sure where but somewhere sunny with a beach. Somehow I lost my case and had to borrow my sister’s clothes. At first it was just a pair of shorts and a T shirt. Then it was shorts and a strappy top. We went to the beach and I wore a swimming costume beneath my shorts and top. I was embarrassed to go in the water but eventually did. We sunbathed by the pool and I wore a bikini. I just wanted to wear the bottoms but was told I had to wear the top too. Last thing I recall was looking at my tan lines before waking up.
My mother smiled as she read my entry. “I think I prefer this to the school girl one.” she said. “It’s nice that you invented a sister to borrow from.”
“I’d have preferred a brother.” I dryly stated.
~o0o~
By the end of the following week, there were four further entries in my diary. I hated writing them down but my mother seemed to enjoy reading them. I was tempted to write nothing and claim that my strange dreams had stopped, but on the one hand I knew that my mother wouldn’t believe me and on the other, I hoped that by writing them down, then maybe they would eventually stop.
“I still find it interesting that in none of your dreams you actually want to dress like a girl, yet you don’t seem to protest too much.” she said.
I replied with a blunt and possibly dishonest “I do!”
Mum smiled at me before re-reading the most recent entry in my dream diary. It was just a run of the mill school based dream in which I’d slipped down a grassy bank and my trousers got all muddy… and such is the nature of my dreams, all they had in the lost property box was skirts and PE kits. I recalled protesting after putting it on; my bare hairy legs looked ridiculous, especially with my boy’s shoes and socks. The compromise was a pair of tights, which did feel better since the skirt was quite short. “You protested but not much.” Mum told me before asking if I came home wearing my skirt and tights.
“They weren’t mine!” I insisted, before recalling the closing moments of that particular dream. “I didn’t even get as far as going back to class before waking up.” I replied.
“I wonder what I’d have said if you did come home dressed as a school girl.” my mother mused.
“What on earth are you wearing?” I dryly suggested.
My mother smiled and said that the reason was ‘feasible’. “I can imagine there being a limited supply of lost property… and you couldn’t spend all day in damp muddy pants.” she said. “I doubt I’d have been annoyed or angry if it happened in real life.”
“Well thankfully it didn’t.” I retorted.
My mother and I had this sort of chat every few days. It was uncomfortable for me, recounting my dreams and trying to describe the clothes, underwear or nightwear I inevitably wore. After a month or so my diary had numerous entries and my mother seemed to relish reading them. She wanted to know if my school skirts were pleated or A line, plaid or plain, if I wore tights or knee socks. She’d try to encourage me to recall the colour, style and fabric of the dresses I wore, what my footwear was like, if I had girlie or boyish hair.
“Mum it’s bad enough having the dreams and having to write them down… I’d rather not talk about them all the time too.”
“I’m just trying to spot a pattern.” she replied in a defensive tone. “You want these dreams to stop don’t you?” she asked.
“Yeah.” I replied.
“Well the only way we can do that is by recording and analysing your dreams.” she replied. “…and that means talking about them.”
I sighed and frowned. “I know… it’s just embarrassing.” I admitted. “You must think I’m a right…”
“I think nothing of the sort Peter.” she quickly interjected. “If anything I think the way you’re tacking them is really quite brave.” she said. “It’d be far easier to pretend you’re not having them.”
I appreciated her words but felt somewhat patronised. I cast her a pursed smile before exhaling slowly through my nostrils.
The next morning I woke with no recollection of having a dream that night. In fact I didn’t dream the following night either. But the next night, I had a most vivid dream in which I’d got in trouble for snapping the girl’s bra straps at school. My mother (or mother figure) was asked to come in to meet with my Head of Year and between them, decided that the best way to both punish me and curb my teasing of the girls would be to make me wear a bra. As my mother read the entry in my dream diary, she asked if it was one that I couldn’t remove. I shook my head and said it was a normal one. My mother asked what colour. “White.” I replied.
“And did you have to wear matching knickers too?” she asked. I wasn’t sure so replied with a maybe. “And did everyone at school know about your bra?”
I nodded. “They could see it through my shirt and the girls kept snapping the strap.”
Mum smiled. “So you learnt your lesson then?”
I shrugged. “I guess.” I replied, before saying it was only a dream.
“Was it a wet dream?” she asked.
I felt myself blush and guiltily I nodded. Mum reminded me that I need to state that fact in my diary. “The doctor’s going to think I’m a right freak when he reads this lot.” I said as I wrote the word ‘wet’ alongside the entry.
“I doubt he’d think anything of the sort.” she claimed. “He’s a professional.”
“If you say so.” I replied, unconvinced.
“I do say so.” my mother insisted. “Anyway… the doctor’s not going to read your dream diary.”
“Why am I writing it then?” I asked.
“So we can analyse your dreams.” she replied.
“Oh.” I replied as if suddenly enlightened. “That’s OK then… I was dreading the day I’d have to sit in his surgery whilst he read them all… you must admit, some of them are pretty weird.”
“They are unusual yes… but many dreams are… I don’t think these are the stuff of nightmares.”
The days and nights passed and my weird dreams continued. Not every night but I’d have three or four out of seven. Writing the details down in my dream diary became a habit and my descriptions gradually became more and more eloquent. My mother particularly enjoyed reading one in which I’d been chosen as one of the six ‘attendees’ to the May Queen, and the fact I was a boy didn’t seem to matter. I wore a cream dress with a lilac floral print. It had short puffed sleeves trimmed with white lace and I wore a garland of daisies in my hair. “I can just imagine you and the other girls laying floral tributes at the May Queen’s feet.” my mother said as I blushed.
“It’s anything but charming Mum!” I retorted when she described it as just that.
“It’s a lot more charming than some of your other dreams.” she replied, reminding me of the common ‘forced’ or ‘punished’ dreams. “This one seems like you’re having a relatively nice time.”
“Yeah… ’til I woke up and felt like a freak.”
“You’re not a freak Peter.” my mother insisted. “You’re clearly very imaginative and creative.”
I felt patronised. There’s nothing normal about dreaming about dressing as girl and Mum knows it. The whole point of this ‘dream diary’ exercise is to bring and end to my weird dreams, but my mother seems to be enjoying my dream diary a little bit too much. I began being deliberately vague when writing my dreams down, which did seem to curb my mother’s enthusiasm… for a while anyway.
Then, one Friday afternoon, Mum tells me she’s got a surprise for me. “What?” I asked.
“Remember this?” she said, showing me the very rough sketch of the brutal training bra I’d drawn.An audible gulp was my only reply.
“Well…” she said. “…I got you one made.”
My jaw dropped as she showed me an almost perfect representation of the bra I’d dreamt about, even the pale blue colour was right! She was clearly proud of the fact that she’d found a proper corsettier to make it. “But… why?” I asked.
“I was intrigued by it.” she replied. “I can’t wait to see if you can get it off or not.” she grinned. With my jaw still on the floor, I simply couldn’t speak. “I got you some big knickers too.”
She showed me a pair of control knickers in the same pale blue as the bra. In spite of the fact I hadn’t sketched them, they’re very similar to those I wore in that particular dream. “I don’t have to wear them do I?” I asked, fearful of her reply.
“I didn’t buy them to look at…” she smiled. “…well… not for you to look at anyway.”
“But…” I gulped. “…I can’t wear that.”
“Of course you can.” she replied. “No one will know but me and you.” she assured.
“But… that’s not the point Mum.”
My mother shrugged and asked me what ‘the point’ was. I didn’t know. All I knew was that I really didn’t want to wear that bra, or any bra for that matter. “Bringing your dreams into reality won’t do any harm Peter… and you never know, it might do some good.” she explained. “You do want these dreams to stop don’t you?” she asked, tapping the cover of my pink girlie dream diary.
“Yes but… if it means dressing like a girl in real life, I think I’d rather just dream about it.” I replied. My mother said she understood, but that didn’t stop her from talking me into giving the bra a try. Right there in the kitchen, I removed my school shirt and tie. It wasn’t at all easy to get on since it consisted of a collar and multiple cross-over straps. The simplest way was collar first, then squeezing my arms through the network of straps. Mum fastened it for me, then adjusted all the straps to ensure it was snug, yet comfortable. “Horrible.” I replied when asked how it felt.
She checked the collar for tautness and loosened it a little. “Is that better?” she asked.
I gulped and nodded. “It’s still really uncomfortable though.” I stated. Its taught chest band gripped my body so tightly I could barely get my fingers beneath it. The numerous straps that criss-crossed my upper back held my shoulders in a such a way that it was uncomfortable to slouch, and the band that wraps around my neck keeps my head upright
“Bras weren’t really designed for comfort.” my mother informed me, although I didn’t believe her.
“Can I take it off now?” I asked after a few minutes.
A wry smile swept her face. “I’d like to see you try.” she grinned.
