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 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 take ages & ages and thoroughly expected it to be around 2.00 pm.
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 into 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 put 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 cupcakes.
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 times she says it, I don’t believe her.
There are no two ways about it… I’m wearing knickers!
I eavesdrop on my sister questioning my mother’s claim.
My mother’s explanation was that she bought most of my outfits 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
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.
