Best Girlfriends Forever - 1

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Best Girlfriends Forever - 1


By Katherine Day


(As high school boys, Milton and Adam developed a unique friendship for one magical year in which they both discovered their femininity. Then they were separated and they feared they’d never see each other again.)(Copyright 2014 - Editing by Eric)

Chapter One: Reunion

Despite just having turned fifty-five, Mildred Lester had retained a trim figure, one that would look desirable on a woman half her age. Having retired early from her years as a high school English teacher, Ms. Lester had worked the last five years teaching English at a small liberal arts college, where she also ran the drama department. She put her heart and soul into the work, finding a late life challenge in the new work, causing her to rise most days early in the morning.

It was understandable that she’d sleep a bit longer on a Saturday and such was the case on this day, when she didn’t arise until nearly 7:30 a.m. She relished the chance to ignore an alarm that went off at 5:30 each morning, Mondays through Fridays; she set the time early so that she could spend some quiet time in reading and reflecting before heading off to the college.

Mildred lifted the window shade, letting in the morning sun that flooded the room and momentarily blinded her, pleased to see that the day dawned bright and clear, just as the weather girl had promised. She planned to get out that morning before the day got too hot to attack the weeds that had infected the backyard plot, having become a problem during a June that was rainier than usual.

“My, oh my, what is this?” Mildred asked herself, her question spoken even though there was no one else to hear. She lived alone in a small one-story, two bedroom tract house, its white-painted frame siding highlighted with teal green trim. The house was built in a subdivision of nearly-identical homes more than 60 years ago, just after World War II.

A moving van had stopped in front of the next door house, a rundown copy of her home; the house had been on the market for over a year, and had been badly maintained. The yard was overgrown with wild weeds and the lawn mowed only intermittently by the realtor. The home’s growing disrepair worried Mildred, and she was concerned about squatters occupying it, maybe even druggies. The long recession had hit her neighborhood hard, leaving a number of vacant homes, as a possible harbinger of the area becoming a slum.

Mildred smiled; the moving van was a good sign, meaning the house had been sold. The only question was: who was her new neighbor? She hoped it would be an older single person who’d be interested in improving the property. But it could be a drug dealer, too!

She’d find out soon enough, she figured, and went into the bathroom to get ready for the morning. In summertime, Mildred wore only a long pink tee shirt and panties to bed; she had no air conditioning, but that was rarely needed in the northern Wisconsin city in which she lived where the breezes off nearby Lake Superior offered relief in all but the hottest days of the year.

The woman, who was taller than most, stood naked before a full length mirror on the back of the bathroom door critically wondering if maybe her tummy was getting a bit bigger. She prided herself on being fit, and her medium-sized breasts were still firm and erect, but when she pinched a bit of her tummy fat she knew that she was getting soft. It bothered her, but her good friend, Cindy Johnson, who was already showing chubbiness seemingly endemic to women as they age, assured her that it was natural for a woman as they get older.

“My God, Millie,” Cindy said. “Most women your age would die for a body like yours.”

The fact of getting old bothered Mildred; she had noticed that her naturally strawberry blonde hair was not only showing bits of gray but was thinning, as well. She knew her friend Cindy was right: she should not worry so much about her looks because Mildred was a truly lovely woman. Mildred cursed herself for her vanity, but she seemed not to be able to shake the tendency. Mildred had not always been such a strikingly pretty woman; there was a time when she considered herself ugly and pathetic.

*****
By 9 a.m. that morning, Mildred was in her garden using a hoe and hand tool to uproot the invading weeds. She made for a lovely, almost pastoral sight, her slender body covered with only a light yellow tank top and tiny shorts that exposed her lovely arms, shoulders and legs. Even though she had put on sunscreen to protect her tender light skin she still wore a wide-brimmed straw hat to protect her face and back of her neck.

As she weeded, she looked periodically at the neighboring house, curious as to whom her new neighbor was. There was not much activity in the backyard of the other house, since the movers were bringing furniture and other household items in through the front door, but occasionally one of them carried an item like a piece of lawn furniture into the back or into the garage. Several times Mildred noticed a woman, perhaps about her same age, come into the back and look around; the woman was wearing a fashionable hat, blouse and slacks, and Mildred thought it must be a real estate agent since the outfit was unusually classy for a summer Saturday morning.

The weeding proved to be tough going and Mildred soon forgot about the neighboring house as she got lost in concentrating on removing the pesky plants without disturbing her flowers. She loved beautiful items. She soon began to perspire and her hands felt like they were becoming calloused as she used the tools. She had never liked to perspire; it just seemed so unladylike. Finally she put down her tools and headed toward her backdoor to take a break and fix herself an iced tea.

“Hi there,” she heard a voice call to her from the neighboring yard.

Mildred looked there to see the classy woman approaching the fence that separated the two yards.

“Yes, hi,” she acknowledged, stopping in her tracks to look at the woman.

“I’d like to say ‘hi,’” the woman said. “I saw you working so hard over there I didn’t want to interrupt you until you stopped.”

“Oh that’s OK,” Mildred said, wondering what the woman wanted. “I would have welcomed the interruption.”

“I’m your new neighbor and my name is Amy Strawbridge,” the woman announced; her voice was a bit husky but a feminine lilt in her words made her sound pleasant and kind.

“Oh, my new neighbor?” Mildred asked, momentarily confused. “I thought you were the real estate agent.”

The other woman giggled, and Mildred realized she had been rude to the neighbor. She quickly remedied the situation.

“I’m sorry, I’m Mildred Lester. My friends call me Millie.”

“Nice meeting you, Millie.”

Mildred walked over to the fence, smiling at the woman and the two reached across the fence to shake hands. Mildred was surprised to see how lovely a face the woman had; she no doubt worked hard to reduce wrinkles and to keep her face smooth, something that Mildred had been unable to do. The woman obviously liked to dress with class and to keep appearing young. That would be a mark of vanity; yet the woman seemed warm and friendly.

Something about the woman seemed familiar, but Mildred couldn’t figure out what it was.

“And nice meeting you, Amy. Are you from around here? It seems I should know you since you look familiar.”

“No,” she said. “I’m from Chicago and was just transferred to work at the main office for the mill.”

“Well, welcome to our community. Just hope you don’t mind our cold winters here.”

Amy smiled. “I know, but the summers and autumn here must be beautiful.”

“They are, but really it seems I know you from somewhere.”

“I have the same feeling, Mildred, but I’ve only been here in this town twice for brief meetings.”

Mildred looked more closely at the woman and then it dawned on her.

“Your said that your name is Strawbridge?”

“Yes.”

“I knew a boy in high school named Adam Strawbridge,” Mildred said. “You must be related to him, maybe even his cousin, or something.”

Suddenly the woman seemed to blush. She smiled back at Mildred.

“And my best friend for a couple of years in high school was a boy named Milton Lester, whose parents named him after the poet John Milton.”

“Oh my God, Amy. You’re Adam.”

“And you’re Milton.”

The two women reached across the fence and hugged as only two long lost friends could hug.

Chapter Two: Library Nerds

Milton Lester was a chubby boy of 14 when he entered 9th Grade at the high school while Adam Strawbridge was trim and slender. Milton had grown up in the community while Adam was new to the city when he entered the 9th grade.

Both boys had one thing in common. They were loners, and both seemed to accept the fact that they had few if any friends. All his young life Milton shied from playing with other boys, since he didn’t like their rough-housing; he found it comforting to sit at home and find companionship in the books he read while haunting the local branch library for more reading matter. He day-dreamed a lot.

In the summer before 9th Grade, Milton often rode his bike to the Emery Hinkle Central Library in the mid-sized Midwestern city. It was an ancient building where the smell of more than seventy years of books still permeated the air, competing with the odor of numerous waxings and cleanups. It was a musty place, but for some young people, like Milton, it was warm and welcoming.

Nestled amidst the stacks in the youth fiction area was a small reading section holding half a dozen oak chairs around a large oak table; it was a place for teens to study or become engrossed in a book, finding fantasy in another world. Milton often could be found as one of those teenagers, and usually he was alone. Occasionally, two or three others would join in sitting in one of the chairs; they were always girls. Milton tried not to pay attention to them, but he couldn’t help but to try to steal a few looks at them, examining what clothes they wore, how they fixed their hair and how they positioned their bodies as they curled up in the chairs.

Several times, a girl might try to nod in a friendly way to Milton or otherwise acknowledge his presence but the shy boy would quickly avert his eyes into his book to avoid any direct conversation. He knew he was fascinated by girls, but he was afraid of them, too.

He realized he was not much of a boy; he was a bit too chubby and not the least bit athletic. He knew his breasts which hung like a girl’s breasts often were visible as they pressed the cloth of his tee-shirt. He wore shorts on hot summer days, and he knew his soft thighs were displayed as he curled up on chairs. Why would any girl care about him?

That summer Milton had become bored with the adventure stories that were featured in most books for boys and began exploring other kinds, having inadvertently stumbled onto a book with an interesting title in which he soon became engrossed. In just a few weeks he devoured the books of Jane Austen, checking out a book one day and returning two or three days later to begin the next one, astonishing Mrs. O’Connor, the youth librarian.

“Are you reading these books all the way through young man?” the librarian asked as he checked out the third book by Jane Austen.

“Yes, ma’am. I can’t seem to stop reading and my mom keeps telling me I’ll ruin my eyes with so much reading,” he said.

“Well, mothers usually know best, dear,” the librarian, a tall woman with close-cropped gray hair, said. “In this case, however, I think reading may be better on the eyes than hours watching television.”

She smiled, and Mrs. O’Connor soon became one of the few adults with whom Milton felt comfortable.

He was particularly interested in “Emma,” Austen’s book that he read after “Pride and Prejudice.” He soon began identifying himself with the lead character in the story, Emma Woodhouse, a fetching young woman who seemed to be more interested in being engaged in match-making than her own potential love interests.

One day, he noticed the book, “Little Women,” the famous book by Louisa May Alcott, sitting on the coffee table in the reading area. Having finished reading every Jane Austen book at the library, he picked up the book, wondering why he – a boy – would read such a book clearly meant for girls. As he had with Elizabeth in “Pride and Prejudice” and Emma Woodhouse, he now found himself enthralled with Jo March, one of the four sisters in “Little Women.”

Milton had become a constant day-dreamer, fantasizing that he had a fascinating and exciting life as someone other than his pathetic self. For years, he had imagined a new life as military hero or star football player.

In that summer, his fantasies changed, often day-dreaming of being a lovely girl in the 19th Century, almost always dressed in petticoats, full skirts and blouses featuring high ruffled collars, with well-coiffured hair. Mostly, he wondered what it would have been like to be Emma, who regularly could be seen in high-fashioned sitting rooms of the gentry, but soon he began creating in his mind a present-day pretty girl whom he named Mildred.

Milton’s fantasizing seized him that summer, and as he rode his bike to and from the Library or on other lonely excursions when he would look at the girls that might be walking along the way. He studied them, hopefully not being too noticeable, mainly wondering how his fictional Mildred would look in whatever the girls were wearing.

So many of the girls were slender, with pretty legs and budding breasts; his Mildred, however, would not necessarily look best in some of the tight, abbreviated shorts or tops. His Mildred was himself, a plumpish girl with chubby thighs and soft arms.

On the day he began reading “Little Women,” he was so caught up with the story that he forgot the hardness of the wooden chair. Already on Page 35, he was fully engrossed in the story when his attention was interrupted by a voice:

“Excuse me. That was my book.” It was a thin, high pitched voice of a girl.

Milton was temporarily confused by the interruption, and he looked up blankly.

“I said I had ‘Little Women’ first,” the girl repeated, slowly and more clearly as if she was speaking to some dimwit. She was a pale, plump girl about his same age. Her round freckled face with full cheeks and the hint of a double chin was framed in long blonde hair. The girl’s eyes were blue as the sky and seemed to be dancing cheerfully.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Milton said, closing the book and uncurling his legs and putting his feet on the floor so that he could sit more erect. “Here, you can have it back. I didn’t know it was yours.”

The girl smiled at him.

“Oh that’s OK. I shouldn’t have left it here while I searched the stacks for another book. I really need to check this book out. It’s for a summer school assignment.”

“Take it then,” Milton said, handing it over to her.

“Thank you, you’re sweet,” the girl said. “You really like this book? I thought only girls would like this book.”

Milton felt his face must be growing red, but he nodded, agreeing that he like this book.

“Oh, I didn’t mean anything by that,” the girl said, apparently trying to make Milton feel more at ease.

“I guess most boys wouldn’t read the book, but it’s a good story.”

Just turning 15, Milton was shy about talking with girls, always envying those boys who could so easily flirt with girls. Realizing how sorry he must look as a boy, he knew full well that no girl would give him a second look; maybe he could talk with this girl, since they both seemed to like books.

“By the way,” he said as the girl took the book. “My name is Mildred . . . ah . . . er . . . Milton.”

The girl giggled a bit, and smiled when she replied in a teasing tone: “Which is it? Mildred or Milton.”

“It’s Milton, of course,” he said. “I just got tongue-tied.”

“Ok, but why did you say ‘Mildred?’” Her smile broadened and her face took on an impish look.

“I don’t know. Maybe I was just reading something about a Mildred.”

“Really? I don’t know of anyone named Mildred in that book you were reading.”

Milton looked away from the girl; he didn’t quite know what to make of her. To his young eyes she looked like a friendly girl who seemed pleased to talk with him. None of her questions seemed to be said in a nasty way, even though they challenged him, as if he were lying. Of course, he was lying, but how could he divulge the real reason he said “Mildred?”

The girl smiled, a warm sweet smile, and said, “My name is Jennifer and it’s nice to meet you Milton.”

Milton looked up at the girl, and smiled at her. He was suddenly enamored with her, perhaps because of her easy, mischievously teasing demeanor. He wanted to get to know her better, but at the moment he felt so overwhelmed that he didn’t know what to say. He was so afraid his basic shyness would cause him to ruin this possibility of making a new friend, one who shared his interest in books and didn’t seem bothered that he was not one of the muscular, handsome star athlete types.

Finally, Jennifer broke the awkward silence. “I’m beginning 9th Grade in fall at Walt Whitman High,” she said.

“Cool,” Milton responded.

“How about you?”

“Me?” he smiled. “The same, ninth at Whitman.”

“That is cool,” she said. “Do you read lots?”

“All the time, it seems,” he smiled, glad to find another person his age who didn’t seem to laugh at him for putting his nose in a book.

“Me too. I guess that makes us a couple of bookworms,” Jennifer said, giggling.

Milton joined her in the giggles, until the youth librarian let out a “Shhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

They both stifled their giggles, putting their hands to their mouths. Jennifer gave Milton a conspiratorial smile, and they both continued in their mirth, but noiselessly, of course. Milton had found a friend.

Chapter Three: A Budding Jazz Singer

Adam Strawbridge hardly had much chance to make friends since his father had some sort of a strange job that caused him to be constantly transferred. Like Milton, Adam found books to be his solace. Much to his father’s dismay, Adam seemed to care little about sports and seemed not to be developing into a strong, muscular young man that a man like himself expected from a son. No amount of nagging by his father seemed to motivate Adam into a more masculine life style. Adam day-dreamed a lot, too.

A slender youth of average height, he had the the body of a long-distance runner. His long brunette hair, thin face and dark eyes seemed to dominate his appearance. When Adam entered into a group of people, he drew immediate attention. Yet, Adam’s strikingly good looks seemed not have changed his fortunes in making friends. He was a lonely boy.

Part of Adam’s issues came because he was rarely in a city more than two years before his family would have to move, and the boy soon learned not to make any close friends since they’d soon be irrevocably parted. He still remembered fondly his friend Mikey, a chubby boy with whom he had become inseparable in the 4th Grade. Mikey, too, was a loner, but the two boys found great kinship in board games – particularly long Monopoly games – and in play-acting. On long, rainy summer days, Adam recalls they would create a makeshift stage in Mikey’s garage and stage plays for the younger neighborhood kids. Adam recalled most fondly the days he put on the dresses or skirts of Mikey’s older sister and played the part of a girl, while Mikey would be the boyfriend in the make-believe play. Sometimes, Adam played the wife or mother in their mini-plays.

“You play the part so well, darling,” his mother said after watching the play along with a half-dozen children and several other mothers.

“Yeah, you’re a born actress,” his friend Mikey teased.

“Don’t tease him, Mikey,” his friend’s mother warned. “Adam’s just play-acting.”

They put on four short plays, with sometimes absurd, fanciful ideas and usually without scripts and lots of giggling in between. The two boys, soon aided by two or three other children, gained a following, even drawing a huge banner on an old bedsheet, announcing the performances of “The 54th Street Players.” They charged the kids 2 cents and the adults 5 cents.

At the summer’s end, Adam’s family had to move suddenly, depriving Adam from starting 5th Grade with his friend Mikey. The boys hugged and cried in their final day together, retreating to the woods, pledging to be “best friends forever,” running into the nearby forested area to cut their fingers and draw blood in order to become “blood brothers.”

Adam never saw nor heard from Mikey again. It was not Mikey’s fault, Adam realized, since his parents had warned him not to let anyone know where they were living and told him firmly to totally lose contact with anyone he knew. He obeyed his mother, of course; Adam always did obey, since he loved her immensely, but also because if he didn’t he knew he was in for a terrible beating from his father.

“Why do we have to move?” Adam asked his mother.

“It’s your dad’s job, dear,” his mother said. “It can’t be helped.”

“But why does daddy have to move so often?”

“It’s best you not know.”

Adam had grown afraid; he knew his father must be doing something dangerous, maybe even illegal. Strange men sometimes parked outside the house in big black cars and his father would either go out to talk to them, or get in one of the cars and leave with them.

“Adam, try not to get too friendly with anyone in the future, dear,” his mother warned him after knowing of how happy Adam had been with Mikey that summer and how tragic it was the two boys had to part as friends.

“But Mikey was my best friend, mommy, my bestest friend ever,” he said crying as he buried his head in his mother’s shoulder.

The family moved three times between Adam’s 5th Grade and 8th Grade years, when his parents divorced. His mother found work as a nurse in the Midwestern city then known for its pre-eminence in auto parts manufacturing and it was expected to be their permanent home. “We’re done moving around,” his mother said.

“Don’t tell anyone about your father, Adam, or about where we lived,” his mother warned him with sternness she rarely used. “Our past is forgotten. OK?”

Adam agreed; except for the summer friendship with Mikey, his past had hardly been worth remembering. He was curious as to why his parents had divorced, though he had sensed for some months prior to the divorce there was growing tension in the house. He heard occasional sharp voices, but rarely was there any yelling or screaming. Both his parents seemed to be soft-spoken and pleasant.

“Let’s start our new life together, Adam,” his mother said. “You’ll be starting a new school, but this time I think you’ll be able to stay all the way through to graduation and you’ll make lifelong friends.”

Adam forced a smile; he was still shy about making new friends and had become awkward with friends his own age. After Mikey, Adam’s only companion was his mother. That is, until he met Milton Lester as he entered 9th Grade.

*****
Adam and his mother spent their lonely moments together finding most joy in music, mainly jazz. Their time together involved many hours, particularly during school vacation periods and weekends, since his mother did not work outside of the home. Until their recent divorce, Adam’s father has refused to let Adam’s mother work, and the added income was hardly needed, since he seemed to provide for them quite adequately. His mother, of course, drove the agenda for Adam’s activities, but he seemed happy to go along with it.

She met his father while singing at a jazz club, which she was doing in addition to her “day job” as a registered nurse. Everyone agreed she had a dynamite voice, rather low and sultry along with superb timing that helped give the jazz tune soul. The musicians loved her, perhaps due to her natural beauty but more likely due to how she understood jazz improvisation and respected each player’s own talents.

His father – then a dashing mustachioed, well-dressed young man – walked into the club one night, and, as he later said, “it was love at first sight.” Just six weeks later, they were married and in less than a year Adam was born as a healthy beautiful child.

Adam took piano lessons – in the classical format, of course – but soon learned to improvise in jazz; in spite of their many moves, his father was always certain to arrange to have a piano available for both his pretty wife and young Adam. By the time he was 12 – and continuing serious classical training – Adam had learned to accompany his mother as she sang jazz tunes, having learned to follow the singer and also to add his own improvised jazz licks. She encouraged him to sing as well, and he sometimes did, his voice in the boy soprano range.

When he was 13, his mother convinced him to try to sing one of her favorites, “God Bless the Child,” the classic made famous by Billie Holliday. He listened to Billie Holiday sing that on a his mother’s record machine many times over, and practiced it for several days, before trying it out on his mother.

“Darling, that was lovely,” she said when he had finished; he accompanied himself as he sang.

“Thanks, mom,” he said pleased.

“And honey, you looked lovely as you sang. You have such a sweet voice and a pretty face. I think you could be the prettiest girl in school.”

She put her arms around the boy, kissing him. Adam felt warm and wanted; also, he blushed, suddenly wondering about being the “prettiest girl.”

He was pleased, but felt he shouldn’t be. “Mom, but I’m not a girl.”

“Of course, Adam. You’re a boy, mommy’s pretty boy.”

That night in bed he had trouble sleeping. He was excited over his performance as a jazz singer, but his mother’s reference to him as the “prettiest girl in class” got him to thinking again about a haunting reality that kept whirling about his brain: maybe he was really a girl, after all. It gnawed at him. He wasn’t as strong as most boys and, outside of planning to try out for cross country, he didn’t like sports, never having even played catch with his usually “away-at-work” father.

The thought dominated his mind the next day; it was a pleasant summer day, and kids were out on the streets in one of the last days of vacation before school. His mother, having been persuaded to take part-time nursing assignments, was off to a job, and Adam had no plans. He practiced the piano for a while, trying to do his classical lessons, but all of the time wondering what it would feel like to sing on stage, wearing a lovely teal blue gown that showed his soft, pretty shoulders and long slender legs.

Later, he cleaned the house, even mopping up the kitchen and bathroom. For some strange reason, he liked doing housework, including laundry. Maybe it was out of boredom, but the fact was he enjoyed it. He tied up his long hair in a bun, wore a pair of shorts, a tank top and sandals, put on a Billie Holiday LP record and hummed along while he did his chores.

His work done, he meandered into his mother’s bedroom and pulled out a photo album from a dresser drawer; he had done this many times before, and his mother didn’t mind. His favorite photo was an old black-and-white publicity shot showed a picture of his mother standing in front of a piano, a tuxedoed pianist in the background looking fondly at her. His mother must have been about 19 at the time, a lovely slip of a girl in a light blue gown (the same Adam sometimes pictured himself in) and the words: “Linda Lightly: New Jazz Singing Star.”

“Would I look as pretty as my mother?” he wondered, as he examined the picture.

*****
That night, as he helped his mother clean up the kitchen, he asked: “Do wish you had a daughter instead of a son, mom?”

She turned and looked at him, almost in anger.

“What? A daughter? No, honey, I have a marvelous son. Why would I want to have a daughter?”

“Well I just thought . . .” he began.

“Oh my God,” she said interrupting him. “Was that because I said you could be a pretty girl?”

“Well I kinda wondered.”

“I’m sorry, dear, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“But mommy, did you mean it? That I could be a pretty girl?”

His mother took a moment to respond. “Well, I guess I did, since you do have such lovely features, but I love you as my son, dear.”

“I looked at your photo again, mommy. The one in the album as Linda Lightly, and I can see I could look like you in a gown.”

His mother smiled. “Ah yes, my Linda Lightly career days. Wasn’t that an awful name, but that’s what my agent chose for me.”

“You were so pretty, mommy, and you still are.”

“But honey,” his mother began. “Are you telling me you’d like to see what you’d look like in a gown like that?”

Adam only blushed, and his mother knew that was exactly what Adam wanted.

She hugged the boy and then said: “Darling, would you like to try to dress up like that?”

“Yes, mommy,” he nodded.

*****
Luckily, Adam and his mother were about the same size, about 5’4”, with the same slender, dainty body frame. That night, after the dinner dishes were washed and put away (everything was neat and clean in the Strawbridge apartment), the two went into his mother’s bedroom, where the process began to make Adam a pretty girl.

“Take off everything, darling,” his mother ordered.

“Even my briefs, mommy?”

“Yes, honey. It’s not that a mother hasn’t seen that before.”

“I guess,” he said, still reluctant. The fact was he was ashamed of his boy parts; he knew his penis was tiny compared to other boys, having seen theirs while changing for gym class. His body was nearly hairless, except for a small area of light hair around his pubic area.

“But mom,” he protested.

“Honey, I know you’re worried about how small you are down there, but some boys just mature more slowly.”

“But mom, look at me. No muscles and such a tiny thing.”

“You’re fine, dear. Now, do you want to do this, or not? It’s OK if you changed your mind, Adam.”

“No, mommy, I want to do this,” he said, surprised at his own eagerness.

His mother had him take a bath, complete with bubbles and sweet smelling soaps and shampoos. She showed him how to wrap his head, turban-like, after he dried his hair. She gave him one of her pink robes to wear as they returned to the room.

“Darling, you have such smooth, soft skin,” she cooed, as she assisted him into a pair of beige-colored satin panties and a matching bra, which were brand new.

“Mommy, these are new. Do you want to waste them on me?”

“It’s not a waste, dear,” she replied. “I bought them for you.”

“For me?”

His mother smiled at him, and drew him into her arms, caressing his soft, smooth body.

“Yes, darling, I just knew you’d want to try this out sometime. I’ve been seeing the girl in you for sometime now.”

“But mommy, I’m a boy,” he said.

“Yes, you are, dear, but this is just for tonight and for some special times between you and me. To all the rest of the world, you’re a handsome young boy.”

*****
Not only had his mother bought a bra and panty set, but also a pair of breast forms to fit inside the 34 B bra cups. She helped him get into the bra and then they helped brush each other’s hair, fix make up and prepare for their performances that night. There’d be no audience, of course, but for Adam it was to be a sweet night.

“Mommy,” Adam said sheepishly as his mother brushed his long dark hair, “I feel like I’m your daughter.”

“I know, honey. Isn’t this sweet?”

“Yes, mommy, but I wonder if it’s wrong for me to feel this way?”

“No, honey. If it’s how you honestly feel, there’s nothing wrong with it.”

Adam was seated on the vanity bench, and his mother was seated on the bed behind him, gently brushing his hair. She leaned around and gave him an affectionate kiss on his neck.

“Mommy, I like being your daughter,” Adam said.

His mother quit brushing his hair and moved her hands to caress his narrow, pretty shoulders. “You know honey, I haven’t done this with another girl . . . you know . . . brushing each other’s hair since I performed. I feel we’re like two girlfriends, honey.”

“Mommy, I do too.”

Within an hour, Adam was fully dressed, wearing a teal blue cocktail-style dress, with ruffled bodice and a cinched waistline leading to a full skirt that ended at mid-calf. The outfit accentuated the hips and with Adam’s slender shoulders and slender arms provided a most feminine silhouette.

Mother wore a similar dress, but in lavender. Both of the dresses had been sitting unused in the closet; they had last been worn while she was still performing. While his mother’s dress fit a bit tightly about the waist, Adam otherwise felt comfortable wearing it.

“We both wear size 6 dresses, honey,” she announced when they were finished. “And aren’t you a beauty, Adam?”

“Oh mommy, you too. You’re so lovely and we could be sisters, you look so young now.”

“Don’t lie, little girl,” she said, giggling.

“No mommy, I’m not lying. I think of us in those commercials, you know about ‘guess which one is the mother?’”

She smiled and gave her son a sweet kiss on his cheek.

They performed several songs together, both incorporating their own unique styles to the song; his mother’s voice was low and sultry while Adam, whose voice still hadn’t changed, sang at a higher register, giving a distinct girlish lilt to the lyrics.

“You sing as pretty as you look,” his mother said when they finished.

His mother brought out her digital camera and soon both were taking pictures of each other, finally using the self-timer to pose several together around the piano.

“These are for us only, dear,” she said when they finished.

It was the best night of Adam’s young life.


(To be continued)

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Comments

Best Girlfriends...

... has the makings of a great story; I will be among many waiting for the story to continue.

Hugs of appreciation, JessieC

Jessica E. Connors

Jessica Connors

Best Girlfriends Forever

The title threw me for a moment and somehow seemed familiar. Then the penny dropped. I edited/proofed a story of the same title for RH Music a few weeks ago which was posted at FM on 1 March :) I think it's a good read and recommend it.

Having got that off my chest, I think this story is just as good and with a totally different theme. Coincidences happen and this one is very believable. I'm not usually all that keen on stories that start at the end and continue in flash-back form but this is promising and I look forward to reading the rest. I'm wondering if Adam's childhood friend, Mikey, will also reappear.

Robi

Great start Katherine!

Amy and her Mother really seem to be off to a wonderful beginning. Now looking forward to how Milton gets started! Loving Hugs Talia