"Great! Looking great, Grandma."
Following on from the story of my Great Granddaughter, Frances, I was learning some new lessons of my own. Helping her learn to be a teenage girl had strange and unusual side-effects on MY life. [See : https://bigclosetr.us/topshelf/fiction/53268/boy-girl-my-gre...
A while ago, my grandson Frank came to stay for a month or so in my sleepy old town of Chichester. He arrived at the station wearing a skirt – which I was more or less expecting because he had come to stay with me in order to learn and practise being a girl, a cross-dressing teenage boy-girl.
I had done some preparatory work and within a few days, Frances had been polished and permed and prettified from toe to topknot. As far as I could tell, I had a great granddaughter. As it turned out, later there were some unusual and inconvenient side-effects.
For some reason, the woman who fitted Frances for her breast-forms promised that she would at some future time get me to try on a bra ‘just so that you know what it feels like’. And some while later, when I went to the shop to tell the proprietor, Bryony, a story about Frances at her new school and the friend she had persuaded to wear a corset. And then some other things. As the comics say ‘Zap, Pow, Kaboom’.
I walked out of there in a bra. With big man-size protrusions sticking out like, well, big tits. Then I had to help my neighbour move some pots before the rain arrived ….. and she rather easily detected that I was wearing unusual underwear.
She was not as offended as I expected.
For the next few weeks she teased me about the bra and the breasts – a lot – and often.
I didn’t know Joan well at all – but the teasing began to build a new relationship. I had been married a long time ago – my wife had died of a short and sudden tropical illness in Malaysia. And I had never found anyone who came close to being a worthwhile replacement. I didn’t want anyone similar to Shirley – but, if I did, I wanted someone as interesting, bright and colourful as she had been. And I discovered that there weren’t many like her – not many at all.
Joan had been ‘just a neighbour’ for some seven, maybe ten, years. I barely knew her. She was a widow, lived on her own with few family visitors. Small, even petite, shortish black hair – and now that I saw her more often – a goodly twinkle in her eye.
We began to see each other or perhaps it was actually notice each other more often. I was the one who first offered a meal. “Sometimes I make a good-sized spaghetti Bolognese. Mostly I freeze a lot of it but would you like to come and share one evening soon?”
“That’d be nice. I’ll bring my usually well-received Tiramisu and a bottle, yes?”
It was a good evening. There was a letter from Sara with two pictures of Frances. One in her school uniform and the second in rehearsal for a play where she was a Lady’s Maid. This gave us a useful topic of conversation for a while.
“Martin, are you as fascinated by this whole Frank to Frances changeover as you seem to be? You did put in a great deal of work looking for help and so on while she was over. And then you were persuaded, shall we call it, into wearing your own bra. What happened to it by the way?”
“I had the boxes, so I put them back in. Actually I meant to return them but never got round to it.”
“Ooh, er, Mr Pelly. Would that be a Freudian slip, a deliberate mistake so that they’re still available. I does know all zee jargon.”
“Don’t be more silly than you have to be. Why on earth would I want them? I told you, it was just that I never got round to returning them.”
”Did you pay for them or did Bryony give them to you?”
“How did you know it was Bryony?”
“Don’t be daft. How many breast-shops are there in Chichester?”
“Joan – you asked me about being fascinated by this boy-girl thing. What would happen if I asked you the same question? Are you especially interested in boys being taught to be girls? You do seem to know more than I would expect about the subject.”
“Since you ask, yes. Yes I am interested. I used to work at a school in Dorset, near the cliffs overlooking Weymouth. They were very accommodating to boys with such issues. I would guess that in a school of 300, that is about 60 in each year, there might be as many as 6 to 12 at a time. It was so nice. Some of them were amongst our best girls. Several even became head girl.”
“There was one time, they had a play and all the lady’s roles were taken by new-girls. Purely a coincidence everybody said. But a couple of the real-girls who had to act as boys or men were quite miffed. I think the Head made a suggestion that such complications be avoided in future.”
“Generally it was very well organised. The Head knew of this group called Big-Sisters and they helped quite a lot. They had begun I think in Berkshire or that sort of nearness to London. They began when some parents were finding that their kids were growing up really quite ugly, too macho, too much testosterone, too male. Someone read a Victorian book where Petticoating was used to make a pretty big change in the target. And they thought that Petticoating might work for real as a modern style.”
“So your reaction to me wearing a bra was pretty much a fake.”
“No. Really no. I was dealing with teenagers mostly. There were obviously some of the staff and ancillaries who were on the spectrum. That is to say, some cross-dressed, some had gone all the way to surgery. But, no, it was more that you were the first person I had ever come across who was, er, getting in touch with their feminine side at a much older age. I was fascinated. And, to be blunt, I want two things. I want to know more about the why and I want to actually help with the how. I miss helping my girls. And … well, I just want to help you.”
I was a bit annoyed. “Actually help or is this a sort of ‘playing with a life-size doll’?”
“Oh no. Really not. What sort of woman do you think I am?” She giggled and that made me smile – a bit.
“Now, that is a question I can no longer answer. I really haven’t a clue as to ‘what sort of woman you are’. For all I know you could be …. But I suspect that at least you aren’t a cross-dresser or transsexual of any sort.”
“No. I’m not. But I promise you that some of the girls who left our school – you couldn’t tell and some went on to fabulous careers as women. With never a murmur of a question. I was so proud. I am so proud. We were all so proud.”
“But what’s this Big-Sister group? Do you have anything to do with it or them any more?”
“No. I seemed to drift away when I didn’t have any girls to actually help. I do wonder now and again how easy it would be to get in touch. It made me so pleased to see one of our girls getting to be successful.”
“Are you trying to get me into your tentacles?”
“If I was a bad girl, I’d be more interested in your testicles. How about maybe both? I’m thinking that it would be interesting for me and very interesting for you to examine the feminine side of Mr Martin Pelly.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Well I say how very kind you were with Frances. And I did just wonder whether you did it because you were interested in the whole idea. You were so very thorough. You let the girl enjoy so many feminine opportunities. It was either brilliant research or, I think, an interest in the process. Hmm?”
“Urquhart.” [It’s pronounced Ercot.]
“What are you talking about.”
“It’s from ‘House of Cards’, the lead character often turns to the camera and says ‘You might think so but I couldn’t possibly comment!” It became a family phrase.
“So you’re going legal on me and saying ‘no comment because I might incriminate myself’. Ho Hum.”
“Shit.”
“At least that wasn’t ladylike.”
“Not too bluntly, I’m not a lady.”
“Can I ask a few questions?”
“I seem unable to stop you!”
“When you heard about Frances were you puzzled or what did you think?”
“I was mostly startled. Then I thought if this is so important to Frank then I’d better do the best job I could. There’s an amazing amount on the internet. I’d never thought about the idea before.”
“Never? You’d not been one of the kids who tried on his sister’s panties or his mum’s bra. No high heels? No pantyhose or stocking experiments? Never a smear of lipstick?”
There are times that your own body betrays you. At some of those questions I had blushed. It’s hard not to when you are pressed about embarrassing moments in your life. Even when they had been decades, several decades, many decades in the past.
Yes – I had tried on a girlfriend’s pantyhose and her lipstick. I had found the sensations of each were amazing, exciting, fascinating but at the same time my boy brain had been saying wrong, perverted, improper. Fortunately, Hiroka had insisted on doing it again a few days later. We both blamed the party scene at college which was quite keen on fancy dress and so on. I wasn’t a large boy nor did I grow into being a large man. I was maybe 5 foot 9 and about 12 stone. This made me solid but not fat and I had barely gained any weight in 50 years.
“Your blushes parade some interesting truths. Now, Martin, are we going to do this? You can say no – and I’d be a bit disappointed. Or you can say yes and we can see how it goes. Are we going to find out what Frances enjoys so much or …..?”
“At all times such as this, I adjourn for a cup of tea.”
“Spoilsport.”
We had tea even though it was so late by now. Somehow we managed to talk about other things for a while. We finished the tea and I said, “This has been very … interesting but I’m calling a halt for now. I’m not ready. I’m still not saying yes or no – I shall again say ‘Urquhart’ and ‘no comment’.
“Can I be a bit hopeful that you might say yes?” asked Joan.
“I shall carefully not say no.”
“In that case, I shall go home and see what I can find out about the BigSisters since I drifted away!”
“Wouldn’t the school be able to tell you something?”
“There was a fire and the Head died shortly after. It closed down for that and other reasons.”
“How are you going to start?” I was showing much too much interest in my doom.
“Shops which specialise in ultra-girly are a good place, not the chain stores but the individual shops. Places like Bryony as one example. I’ll drop in and have a chat.”
“Oh dearie me. What is happening to my cosy, comfortable life?”
“You want things to be the same day after day after day – like you’re already dead. How dull. Let’s get something happening, something exciting. Take a lesson from your granddaughter.”
“I really think there’s a lot of other things on my bucket list rather than dressing up as a laydy.”
“Don’t worry. I would never make you look as silly as David Walliams.” And it was undoubtedly a smirk on her face.
“Have you drugged me or something. I seem to be quite amazingly relaxed about this whole new and unlikely arrangement. What can you possibly have done to make me feel so calm about this weird rearrangement of my life. I have never considered that I was in any way like Frances. Why should I be so sanguine about it. I might have taken the alternative route and been bloody-minded and hot-blooded rather than being as I say, cold-blooded and horribly calm. What is going on?”
“Perhaps it’s the potential for something different and exciting. A totally new experience with the advantage of someone being willing to guide you in the complexities of the situation, hmmm? Are you denying that there might be something enticing about a completely new experience at your advanced years. Ask yourself, what could be more different than dressing as a woman, being a woman for as many intents and purposes as possible? To be fair, the generally ascribed ‘ultimate womanly experiences’ are far beyond anyone of your age – female puberty – no, menarche – no, periods - no, pmt - no, marriage – no, children – no, breast-feeding – no, and the end of all that would also now be past with the menopause – which you’re also not going to get. Almost like children – where there is no real difference until puberty, with the elderly too – there is increasingly little difference. Perhaps the biggest difference for real women is the memory of all those maternal and matriarchal feelings, emotions and beliefs. Mind you, there’s enough women who don’t enjoy or even suffer those parts of their life much as well as those who don’t or can’t have children. But there is much still for you to experiment with and experience as much as possible. I’ll help.”
“Put that way, there is something to think about,” I mumbled.
“I’ve watched you over the years, not closely, but you’re my neighbour and you often looked a little lost’”
“Lost! I’m fairly sure that I never felt lost! And I can’t think what I might have been displaying that was anything close.”
“Maybe some combination of alone, puzzled about life, short of excitement …. I don’t know. But I do feel sure that this could be a new and invigorating experience. And you’d learn to be even better with Frances.”
“I thought I did pretty well. Frances seemed to come out of it as the confident and cheerful girl I hoped to bring out.”
“Very much so. You can be really proud of what you did there. But what about you, your needs, your inner person. How are you going to bring her into the open?”
“What on earth are you talking about – my inner woman. That’s getting a bit close to rubbish, neighbour dear.”
“Martin – if you didn’t have at least some girl-type sensitivity then you wouldn’t have been able to help Frances as you did; you wouldn’t, you couldn’t have been persuaded by Bryony to put on a bra. Face a new fact – your complete persona has its yin and its yang. Inside you, just as in every human – male, female, good, bad – is a fragment of the opposite. Let’s have a better look at Martina.”
“No way am I going to allow my female component to have a name as obvious as Martina. No way. Not.”
“Then I’ll use ‘Marta’, my dear. Once we have opened you up to this new world, you’ll be able to choose whatever name you’re comfortable with. Didn’t you tell Frances that ‘the essential thing is to be comfortable and confident’. It’s your turn.”
“But I am comfortable and confident – well, most of the time, I just don’t think about those as components of my daily life. Generally, I would answer ‘life’s pretty good’. “
“You’m a wriggling’ m’boy. You’m not facing up to the truth. I can see, I have seen, you’re bored. Frances gave you the first new thing in your life and, by golly, you did it thoroughly, kindly and beautifully. Why not do the same to yourself? Eh?”
“Why not. First, because it’s such a new idea, such a big idea, so very different. Perhaps I’m not ready?”
“If after all you’ve done so nicely with Frances, you’re not yet ready – then I don’t know what else could make you ready. Doesn’t wearing a bra, a properly fitted bra at that, make you feel different. Doesn’t it make you feel special. Alive to the possibility of something new. I think you’d be silly not to take the chance. And I’m making no promises or forecasts as to what you might get out of it. I do think you’d be better able to do even better for Frances. I also think that our relationship would have to change. Do I mean sex – I haven’t a clue. Do I mean a change to the fairly vague relationship we have already – well, I’m sure there’d be changes. Each time I see you in a frock or dress or skirt. Each time I help you choose what to wear. Each time I go out with Marta and we go shopping or whatever. Each time there’d be more change in our relationship. Where it might end – well that’d be gradually apparent and somewhat negotiated as things progress.”
“You do seem awfully certain that I’m going to go ahead with this.”
“I am actually. That first time in a bra, I thought there was something to build on and share. If I asked, would you be willing to go next door and bring me the bra you were given. I’d like to see it better – I’d like to see you wearing it.”
“I’m thinking not – right at this moment.”
“Then tomorrow morning. Come round at about 10.00 and we can plan the day. I’m planning to take my new friend, Marta, shopping for one or two things to help her realize what sort of woman she might be.“
“I wasn’t planning on anything that fast!”
“Maybe you were thinking that perhaps this whole thing will go away if I delay long enough?”
“I don’t think so – but I wasn’t expecting anything to happen so suddenly.”
“Is that the advice you gave Frances? To do it slowly and bit by bit. I think not. Or to have confidence and do her best, thoroughly and deliberately and to ask for help from friendly people.”
“You know I suggested the latter – and I delivered too.”
“Of course I know. Otherwise I wouldn’t have said what I’ve just said. I’m not going to argue. I expect Marta here tomorrow, dressed in comfortable clothes that should be mildly vague and easily changeable. Is that a ‘Yes, Joan’ I hear as an answer.”
“Grumphhh.”
“That’ll do. So, now it’s time to end tonight’s chat. Off you go, Marta.” And she gave me a hug and a kiss such as I have seen women do to each other. This startled me – but it felt kind of nice too.
--------------
And then it was morning. I woke and quickly remembered what I had (more or less) been promised to agree to.
Thinking that I was still being sort of unwilling to go ahead with the Marta project, I did get dressed (perhaps unconsciously) in a shirt and plain trousers plus sandals. What I would describe as summer-minimal. On some occasions, I would have worn shorts instead.
I walked all the twenty yards over to Joan’s house. It might have been twenty miles or twenty years. It was a long way. And I knew, knew with my heart, that each step I made was me beginning to accept change. I was frightened and not-frightened at the same time. I was excited and scared at the same time. I was Martin when I set off but I had a sort of acceptance of Marta by the time I pressed the doorbell. (But I still didn’t like the version of the name that Joan had suggested).
“Morning, Mart…a dear. I’m so glad that you’ve come over. We are going to have a nice time. Not the ‘best day out ever’ – who would be silly enough to promise that. But a nice day out. A day for you to find out new things about yourself. A bit of fun, more than anything else.”
“I won’t say I’m happy about this, or comfortable, and certainly not confident – but I’m ready to go along with this strange, weird and yet exciting idea you’ve got. Where are we going first, to Bryony’s to ……”
“No, no. We’re going to do exactly what you did with Frances. We’ll sit having a coffee while we keep an eye on what you’d be comfortable with. Dress, skirt, blouse – what sort of dress or skirt or blouse. What colours catch your attention. What materials and styles give you some pleasure. Equally, the clothes and so on that you do not like, that you wouldn’t be comfortable in, that you ‘wouldn’t be seen dead in’. We’ve plenty of time.”
I grumphed. “I suppose if it worked for Frances then I can’t really argue about doing the same. There is the big difference. He wanted to learn about cross-dressing and doing it properly so that nobody could tell – and he was miles away from home and potentially critical or teasing schoolmates. I am not as keen about learning, I have much less interest in ‘doing it properly’ and I live here.”
“Marta dear, the one contradicts the other. Living locally means it’s actually a bit important that you do ‘dress properly’ quite early in this project. I can tell you, and Bryony can confirm, that your body shape is not too masculine. Mind you, it’s not particularly feminine either you’ll be glad to hear.”
We did exactly as I had done with Frances. I was given a little notebook and a camera too. We snapped away busily; pretty confident that no one would complain about two elderly people taking occasional pictures of passers-by.
After a while, Joan asked me what I had been particularly attracted to.
“Well, for a start, I wasn’t looking at anything younger than middle-aged. I’m old but there’s a lot of those who look in my sort of bracket that really dress like, what’s the word, dreadfully. It’s as if they don’t care what they look like, they don’t care what others see of them – right dowdy, drab, dull. Mismatched in colour, pattern, material – just dreadful. From that sort of assessment, I went to what sort of clothes would look at least complete and matching at first and second glance. So I got myself looking at dresses and suits rather than trying to make new outfits which might turn out as badly as some that’ve walked past us. When I say walked, I mean also waddled, stomped, clumped and trundled. Not pretty some of them. Not at all pretty – and rarely ladylike or, what’s your key word? – not even ‘confident’.”
Joan smiled. “I’m glad you put it that way. It’s pretty much what I expected you to say. There is one thing that you need to be sure of. Wearing a dress is very much a statement of feminine. So you need to select dresses that really do suit the image you want to have.”
“I did love some of the more subtle patterns and the relatively simple amount of colours. The bold patterns and the garish colours never caught my attention. The monochrome was okay provided there was at least a pick-out colour to catch the attention. There was a black and white dress which had red stitching – that looked good.”
“Hmm, yes, I did notice you noticing that particular dress, good choice. Any others?”
“There were some, like I said, well-cut, simply coloured. I saw a pretty dress in blue, sort of layered from white to dark. I don’t know what the material was. And I thought there were some knit dresses that clung very enticingly. I’m not sure a clingy material would be right though – I don’t have much of a shape for this.”
“Are you willing to be helped around a few shops to get more of a feel for things, so to speak? I’m very willing to be your assistant. I can look at anything you’re interested in. I can give you quite a lot of help as to what will suit what combination. As for shape, you’d be amazed what options there are to assist you.”
“Dear Pushy Neighbour. I’m not at that stage yet. Give me a little leeway – don’t get all sulky and stop, I’m not asking for that either. I’m mildly willing – mostly because I can see that it has been a real pleasure to Frances. I really enjoyed seeing how she came out of her boy-shell and so very much tried her hardest to be as real and confident a girl as she could manage. If there’s something in it for an old codger like me – then as a startlingly new and unusual experiment – I might, repeat might, give it a go. But I’m not ready yet.”
Joan tried hard not to look at all sad.
“I’ll be very generous. I’ll walk slowly past the shops. If I truly see something that, as Frances said ‘calls out ‘Buy Me’, then I’ll think about noticing it. Is that fair?”
“That’s very reasonable. I’ll just have a little hope that something will catch your attention enough to say ‘Coo, pretty.’”
Over the next few weeks, the Marta project went at a speed which was often too much for me and frequently too slow for Joan. Partly this was because she had got back in touch with the BigSisters group she had talked about.
A few days after she had got back in touch, she was almost babbling and bubbling with excitement. The group had got much bigger than before. There were groups in many of the local towns. They had links with schools, companies, shops especially.
But when it went well, it was a lot of fun. I was finding out about materials. I was beginning to enjoy the sensation of silk and satin on my skin. The slick, smoothness of slippery …. ooooh, I was finding there was so much to enjoy compared with the drabness and indeed roughness of what I was used to. Joan asked me what my favourite clothes were – and she was right, they had been worn and worn often enough to give them the feel of new woman’s clothes. And I think the most special ‘first’ thing was when I put on stockings and suspenders. That was definitely a wow.
I was changing. I was loving quite a lot of the new life I was being pushed towards. And I did feel there was quite a lot of pushing from Joan. And actually Frances was quite keen in her own way. She didn’t know about Marta yet, of course. But her pleasure and success as a new-girl was a frequent reminder of what could be achieved by someone looking for such a change. I had never looked for a change – certainly not this one – but I did enjoy a challenge and this was making me feel more alive than I had felt for ages. Not that I would recommend anything this weird to anyone – not never.
There were quite a few evenings where I met up with some of Joan’s new or new-old BigSister colleagues. It was really fascinating. And a thing that stunned me was that I could not, absolutely could not, detect that at least some of them were new-girls. They had been in role for years and even decades. And not always permanently. Several of the ladies only dressed when they felt like it. Quite a number were married to women, a very few were married to men.
The variety of how they lived their lives was remarkable. The variety of how they got in touch with their feminine side was equally varied. What I learnt of the BigSisters was that they basically offered a system for those who needed to get in touch with their feminine side. I did have some concern when I wondered about ‘who decided there was a need’. From the stories, it was sometimes mothers, aunts, sisters, girlfriends, stepmothers always had a bad reputation, teachers too – almost everybody had a different story.
Sometimes I got really interested in the stories the girls told. Stories about sharing a flat with several girls [Training Stories], the cousin who came to stay and behaved so badly that he was treated as baby [Cry Baby] and the boy who was used as a Perfume Experiment [Perfume works on Boys].
Joan offered her own stories too. It was really interesting to hear how different new-girls arrived at the school and learnt their new lifestyle. Some arrived certain that they were female and feminine through and through. Others arrived with considerable uncertainty but with pressure from their mothers, sisters or whatever. I found that I really disliked the idea of anybody pressuring teenagers at a very fragile age and with very tentative psychology.
There had been enough times in my life where I had felt pressured – oh stop beating about the bush – I was bullied, manipulated and pushed beyond my comfort zone too often and too much.
I had been pushed to learn the piano – years of black and white keys, meaningless dots on lines, and ever increasing evidence that I didn’t have the willingness to practice nor any evidence of actual skill. It was the same with singing, drama, horse-riding, sailing, karate and so many more things. Eventually I said that I would do many of the things I was asked to try but – first off – I would give each one three months effort, about 10 or so weekly sessions so that I could get to know the people, the general feel of the pursuit and to get an idea for myself and from the coach about whether I did have any skill or potential.
Mostly, what the parents wanted me to do wasn’t of interest to me. But there was always the pressure to do what they asked, what they paid for, what they organised, what they drove me to (I mean by car not by actual force!).
So I had history in being sensitive to pressure. And I had spent a lot of my life both avoiding pressure and helping others avoid it as well. The BigSisters code was, for me, right on the edge.
Gradually, I got into the habit of coming home and, probably three or four evenings a week, I would dress up. Half of those evenings I would go over to Joan or she would come over to me or, rarely, we would go out. And going out was sometimes shopping and more often a BigSisters meeting or one of their houses.
About four months after I had put on that bra, I had a phone call from my daughter that Frances wanted to come and stay for a long weekend. And if I was willing, could I talk beforehand with Frances and find out if she wanted any appointments made with any of her special shops or with any of her friends. My first answer was ‘no problem’ then a little later I asked why she wasn’t able to do it for herself.
I got a sort of vague answer but got the basic message that Fran wanted me to do it face to face rather than her doing it by phone.
I had a word with Joan. “I’ve got a sort of a problem. Frances wants to come to visit for the weekend. Should I let her find out about Marta? How should I do it? Any advice?”
“There’s a few options. You can pick her up at the station dressed as Marta and then explain that because of her interest in clothes, you’ve been looking and experimenting too. You could as an alternative, blame it on the next door neighbour who is sort of bullying and blackmailing you into doing it but actually you’re enjoying some of it. On the other hand, you could wait until she’s back here with you and then talk to her about either of those two options. You could of course be only-Martin and tell Frances nothing. And on the other hand, whichever one that is, it feels like six or seven, you could tell her on the phone, send some pictures and ask who she’d prefer to meet? I’m sure I could invent a few other scenarios if you wait a few minutes.”
“I think I’ll wait until we’re back here.”
“But if Frances wants to go shopping, and perchance, met up with Bryony and accidentally ….., well, you know, ….. you’d better be prepared.”
“That was a scenario I hadn’t planned for. Yes, I am getting known in several shops – but they’re all really on the ball as regards discretion and keeping schtum when necessary. I don’t think even Bryony would out me for wearing a bra in front of Frances.”
“Bryony would probably be the only one who might – but then she knows both of you in both your personas. She might be naughty but it wouldn’t be meant in a cruel or nasty way.”
“I think my first idea is the one I’ll go with. Perhaps you’d like to join us for lunch if it’s that time of day that she arrives – as I expect.”
“Can I take on the role of the ‘One who drops you in it’?”
“It would do my confidence no good if you did do it and I think I’d be pretty certain that it wouldn’t help our relationship in the slightest if you started trying to be clever or manipulative. No way, thankyou. I’m sorry of that came across as a bit blunt or stern or over-the-top or whatever. I’m very grateful for your efforts to help me with this, er, experiment. But let’s keep it cool, calm and play it by ear if we have to. I’d be happier that way.”
“You weren’t overreacting – just being firm. And I was probably getting over-excited too. I should apologise and I do - so, I’m sorry that was inappropriate of me’.”
“Don’t make such a song and dance about it.”
“Actually I’m just remembering and acting out one of the standard apology examples that the BigSisters made their LittleSisters perform when they needed to do so. If it’s good training for them, then I should be doing it to.”
“Are you getting back into your BigSister frame of mind? You’d better talk with me if you’re planning in any way for me to be your target. I’m not thinking that way, I’m just playing around with the idea.”
“Don’t fret. I haven’t even had any feedback as to how or even if it’s reached this area. And if it has, then what are the local hotspots and places of interest. That’s not unreasonable, I hope?”
“I’m a bit sensitive to all this. It’s new. It’s very different. It’s potentially damaging to my reputation – and to yours. Cross-dressing still doesn’t have a loveable image. There’s a lot of people who hate it and tell you very publicly. Why take risks when it’s not necessary?”
“Can’t argue that that’s being sensible. After all, you’ve barely been out in public except for that one time when we went to the pub. But that did give you the certainty that most people weren’t taking even a second glance at you as ‘ooh look weirdo in a dress’. All the glances you got were as a perfectly normal, competent, confident woman. I was proud of you. But, yes, why make things deliberately complicated.”
So, that Friday evening, Frances skipped off the train and strolled all teenage-girlish towards me at the barrier. Not a trace of boy was evident.
“Frances, sweetie, you look fabulous. Such a pretty dress. You look so super in it. But, and I say this as a slightly disapproving grandparent, what on earth is that perfume that you’ve been swimming in. It’s so overpowering. Really not suitable for a girl your age.”
Frances giggled. “Isn’t it horrible – but it turned out for the best. I got changed in the department store near the station. As I passed the perfume attack-zone, one of the girls swooped and the top came off the bottle. I got drenched. There were screams of OMG and all that, so a manager came out to sort it. I had to catch this train so there was no time to change into the new outfit they offered me or to have a proper wash either. So I’ve been a stinkpot all the way here. But, they did promise me a massive discount or bonus or deal, whatever, when I go back next week. I rang Mum and she’s willing to be the outraged parent to see if we can boost them a bit. I mean really, if it had been a perfume that was mildly pleasant – but this – yukk.”
“I think a letter from me as well. Saying how many people had commented about your problem and how much I admired your avoidance of blaming the shop for it. You could have given them some dreadful publicity and you didn’t. People forget that for every one person who shares some good news or advertising about a product or shop, about 10 times as many share bad news. It’s really unkind but that’s what people do. And you didn’t – so they really should reward you significantly.”
“I like the way you think, g’dad. But I really impressed that you can still talk the talk about the clothes I’m wearing. I’d’ve guessed that the Frances project jargon would have worn off by now!”
Was this the opportunity to tell young Frances about the G’dad Project which was beginning to take shape. I paused and by then we had walked to the car.
We set off and passed the end of the road where Bryony’s shop was tucked away. Fortunately it was late and Frances made no effort to persuade me to drop in so she could have a chat.
I had set up a snacky late tea rather than the supper I would have made in a couple of hours. Frances fell on the available items like a neat-eating vulture. Her lady-like habits already well ingrained. She never actually had food in both hands and in her mouth all at once, but it looked like a speed-eating contest of some sort. I slowly and sedately ate a few morsels before they disappeared from the table.
“So, young lady. You passed a remark about ‘whether the Frances Project and all I learnt from it had completely worn off or not’. I have some startling news about that. You remember that woman Bryony made a joke about ‘me finding out about a bra someday’. Well, I made a big mistake and dropped into her shop to give her the news about you and your friend with the corset. I thought it would entertain her. Instead, she took the opportunity and pretty well forced me into trying on a bra and, worse, wearing it out of the shop until I got home.”
Frances giggled and slipped a hand under her blouse to tidy her bra straps in some unconscious response to the word bra. “You didn’t.”
“Well, yeah. I mean how successful were you in avoiding that woman. I mean – she’s determined, really very determined. She might have begun it as some silly little joke – but by the time she’d measured me to, fro, round and sideways and then put about three different bras on me ‘to check the fit’ and then filled them with bloody great lumps of fake boobage – it wasn’t much of a joke anymore. I couldn’t believe how weird it felt. Having these straps across my back and round my ribs and shoulders as well as the complete change in my eyeline. As soon as I looked down, there were these two big curvy things instead of what I was used to.”
“Did you get used to them if you had to wear them all the way home. I mean, G’dad that must have been nearly 10 minutes you were wearing a bra. Wow, gosh, awesome.”
“Do not be a bold and impertinent child, you mere thing you. And by the time I got home, I’d probably been wearing a bra for some 25 or 30 minutes, not a mere 10. It wasn’t too bad. Well, not until …dot, dot, dot, dot, …….”
“Oh, don’t be a tease. What happened in the dots?”
“It was about to rain and my neighbour, Joan – you’ve sort of met her a couple of times – asked me to move some things so they didn’t get wet …dot, dot, dot, and she noticed I was wearing a bra.”
“And, and, and … qu, qu, question?”
“She’s got rather keen on me finding out more.”
“What she wants you to dress up as well. Like me?”
“Pretty much, yes.”
“When do I meet ‘G’ma’, then?”
“Really? You’re not a bit weirded out by this?”
“Why should I be? I’m a boy who loves to wear pretty dresses and makeup and be as much girl as I can be. I’ve even got a girlfriend now who loves me whether I wear a dress or not. I couldn’t be happier with how things are. Why wouldn’t I want to share this with my G’dad?”
“Maybe in the morning.”
“What, you’d just show me in the house here, or you’d be willing to come shopping with me into town?”
“I wasn’t really offering going to town.”
“I promise – if I think it’d be fine and like you told me ‘you’d be safe with me’ then I’ll be completely up front and truthful. Trust me, I’m a lot more savvy than I used to be. And this town is not and never will be a hot-bed of, well, it’s never going to be a hotbed of anything. But I’d love to help you experience the kindness I got in this town. It might be fun for you too.” Frances smirked and went on. “So, how big a wardrobe does G’ma have then. Is she a girl for skirts and blouses or for dresses. Frills and flounces, petticoats, what sort of girl are you?”
“So, we’re going to have a whole few days of ‘You did this to me so you’re doing it back to me now’.
“No, no, no, no, no, yes. Well, maybe, but probably not. After all, when you did it for me, I was in a different town and yet, here we are in your home town so we’ll have to do it differently, more cautiously.”
“Now that I’m not going to argue with. But I’m still very tentative about all this, very slow-and-steady.”
“Don’t worry so. I’ll track down a really pretty tortoise dress for you.” And there was that giggle again.
I didn’t realize until the next morning that I was already getting quite used to dressing as Marta. I got up, shaved including under my arms as I often did. I put on my panties, bra and inserts with no feeling of wrongness, then I selected a cream blouse with blue trim and a blue skirt with a flukily matching cream trim. The finding of the skirt was a complete miracle. Joan told me that normally a woman would choose such a skirt and then look for the blouse to match; this generally being the easier sequence. But the blouse looked so right to me I decided to buy it and I assumed that a plain blue skirt would be quite easy to find. Well, most women know that sometimes a match is easy and sometimes it just never happens. I was learning.
I put on a touch of makeup. Not the full conceal-every-male-shadow that I thought was really necessary but a ‘sufficient to look womanly’ version. My eyebrows had been shaped, so with a little eyeshadow and so on I knew my eyes looked nice. A touch of foundation and powder and a well-chosen lipstick. Earrings dangled. The casual glance would say ‘woman’. That was my intention.
I went down to breakfast and forgot that my shoes clip-clopping down the wooden stairs would alert Frances to something kind of unusual.
“G’dad, sorry, G’ma, you look so neat. That’s a really pretty combo you’ve put together. And I like the shoes too.“ I couldn’t avoid noticing that Frances was smiling with pleasure.
“Well, y’know. If we’re going out ….. I thought you’d better see the new version.”
“I do, I like it. You look very, let’s choose the right word, very real, very comfortable, very G’ma. I love this new look. And you, do you like it or love it – your new style?”
“How much I like it, that I’m still not sure about. Joan keeps pushing me on the lines of ‘this is something new, different, take-a-chance, get-a-new-life. Well, actually, one of her last comments when I was balking at something she suggested was ‘stop being a dull dead male’. That, I thought was a bit over the top. But once you get to know her, Joan is over the top quite a lot of the time. It does add a certain spice.”
Fran smiled, “G’ma – which is it that adds the spice, eh, the dressing or the over-the-topness?”
“Tread carefully, youth, for you tread on her schemes.”
“If you’re going to mangle a quote like that, G’ma, I suppose Shakespeare is a good starting point.”
“Not Shakespeare, dolt. It’s not actually true that every famous English quote is either the Bible, Shakespeare or Churchill. That one is by W B Yeats. And he’s Irish. And I do know the proper quote is ‘Tread softly for you tread on my dreams’. I was just making it obvious that this is being pushed more by Joan than by any active or long-standing wish of mine own.”
“Whatever.”
“Ghastly child, use not that teenage cant with me. I like it not.”
Fran just giggled.
I smiled back enjoying the antics of the young girl sitting at the table. And, by now, she was exactly that. A girl. Not a pretend-girl or anything like that. Not a boy-in-a-dress. Not a tomboy either. This was a young girl fully aware of herself, confident in her pale blue frilled sundress. I could see the soft swell of her small breasts. I admired them. But to my amazement, not in the usual male way. I admired them because it proved she was a girl. I guess the only word that fitted was ‘maternal’. I stopped, stunned at this new thought.
Exactly how far was I going to go with this?
I looked out of the window. It looked like a beautiful day. Fran did the same.
“Oh, golly, G’ma. It looks super. After we’ve been to town for whatever, can we go to the beach?”
I turned and raised an eyebrow. “And exactly who would be taking one of my famous beach picnics to the chosen strand? We’ll come back and I’ll change.”
“Erm, sorry. I wasn’t thinking it through. Would you like to come to the beach as G’ma?”
I began “But I haven’t ..” and the smirking child joined in with “got a thing to wear.” And we both burst out laughing as hard as I’ve laughed in years. I did enjoy my new granddaughter. As I’ve said before she’s great.
“I’d like it if you did.” Fran watched me. “Please. I’ll help with the picnic. And I’ll help you choose a costume.”
“A costume? I was only talking in terms of a sundress or something suitable for the beach. I’m not exposing this badly shaped carcass to public view.”
“But you do love swimming,” said the persuasive imp.
I gave in. “We’ll see what there is. But I’m making no promises. But we’ll get the stuff for a picnic and then see what there is. And don’t push. Or I’ll change your name to mini-joan.”
“Did I hear my name being mentioned critically?” and the official holder of the name came in. These days we both went to and fro in each other’s houses almost at will. We knocked sometimes but less and less frequently.
“I’ve asked G’ma to come to the beach. He’s being resistant, currently.”
Puns leapt to my mind – what, resist, conduct, fuse and similar - rather than dealing with the manipulative pair in front of me. Trying to push me faster and further than I was comfortable with.
To my amazement, Joan did not agree instantly with Frances. “You mustn’t leap in like that. Your granddad is only just getting involved with this whole idea. To push him to go to the beach when he isn’t comfortable with the idea – you don’t do it that way. Did he push you like that?”
Frances blushed and paled simultaneously. “No, he didn’t. He was really so kind to me.” She turned to me, “Sorry Gdad.”
“Don’t, so to speak, get your knickers in a twist. No damage done. Picnic still on. Visit to town still on. Let’s have a nice day.”
You know what I’ve said about a dress or a skirt or blouse ‘calling to you’. Talk about getting the timing wrong. We were in one of the lingerie departments looking for new bras for Frances when there it was. A swimsuit exactly matching in blueness and creamness and style to the outfit I was wearing.
Joan noticed it first. “Marta, stand there for a moment. Frances, turn round for a moment. Is that or is that not exactly the right thing for Marta?” and she pointed to the rail beside me. I couldn’t see it without turning round as I was some two foot past it.
Frances grinned. “Oh, yes. No choice really. G’ma – it’s there for you. Really just the exact thing. Please.”
So I turned. And I looked. And I gave in. And I picked the right size off the rail. And I tried it on. And I bought it. And I knew I would be wearing it to the beach. And the matching one in green. And the matching sarong-wrap for both. And the matching scarf for both. Expensive. But I was finding out day by day and shopping trip by shopping trip that Marta was an expensive pastime. And she did choose the more expensive clothes, shoes, makeup and so on.
And I was beginning to love the whole experience. It really helped to have Joan being so supportive. And now Frances, the girl I had helped release, was keen as well.
Back home, and I hadn’t had any time to think about how far I was going to go. There was a picnic to prepare. Marks and Spencer had provided some quick and easy options but I still had to make my standard summer recipes. Gazpacho done my way takes about 20 minutes and Coronation Chicken about the same; mind you for those timescales you need cold stock and cooked chicken ready and available.
Cucumber, ½ onion, 2 tins tomatoes, oil, vinegar, tabasco, salt etc – whizz whizz - add to the stock and put to cool for a bit longer.
Chicken, mayo, curry powder, raisins or grapes or whatever for sweetness, flaked almonds – stir and taste and ready-to-go.
The rest of my ‘instant picnic’ depended on what was available – fresh bread always, good crisps or nibbles, lettuce, new potatoes, warm hard-boiled eggs, smoked salmon, dips etc. If you can only cook to a strict recipe or routine then you’re losing half the fun.
It was almost too hot by now so I insisted on cool drinks and a sitdown before late picnic lunch in the garden. I offered to bring a late afternoon tea picnic instead. There were grumbled agreements. And I also calculated that a little later in the afternoon there would be fewer people on the beach to take any notice of Marta.
I felt that by buying so much swimwear I had, in effect, promised that it would be Marta going to the seaside.
It was enormously different being out in the open dressed as a woman. Knowing that a casual glance from others on the beach would see an elderly woman with large breasts in a modern one-piece swimsuit. Hopefully looking no different from any of the other similarly aged women on the beach. Looking ordinary. Being comfortable.
And I enjoyed it. And it was exactly as Joan had been saying. I was taking a risk. I was accepting that this was something I could do and was going to keep doing.
On the way back home I talked about my ideas for this new larger riskier future.
“I’m close to deciding to go with this whole Marta thing, y’know.”
There was a squeal from the back seat. And a quiet noise from the passenger seat which might have been ‘yep’.
“I’m not certain sure of this, but the more this has gone on for, the more I’ve realized that I do need something bigger and bolder, something to give me a reason to be alive more than just keeping on with the same old same old like I have been doing. For crying out loud, most of my friends I’ve known for some fifteen, twenty or even thirty years. I have hardly ever been beyond their kitchen for a coffee or their man-shed when that’s relevant. I don’t think I’ve been invited for meals or an evening’s entertainment outside of these ten or so mates for ages. That’s just another version of being dead really. It’s not good enough. Something must be done. Who said that, Frances.”
“The Prince of Wales, the one who nearly was Edward VIII, in about 1930. When you were young.”
“Rude child. And you know I wasn’t even born then.”
“But you said you’re nearly dead, so you must also be really old.”
“Don’t get snippety with me, Miss Smarty-pants. I remember when I had to smack your bottom. I’m perfectly willing and able to do it again.”
“You wouldn’t smack my bare bottom, would you.”
“Well, and who moved it from ‘bottom’ to ‘bare bottom’, huh. You’re getting a bit too bold, too adventurous maybe. It’s not proper. I don’t approve. Enough.”
“Sorry, G’ma.”
“That’s enough and we won’t do that again, will we, young lady? Or do I make you wear the clothes you left behind last time.”
“No, no. I’ve promised myself never to wear boy clothes again. Don’t make me.” Fran was almost in tears.
“Well, don’t push and don’t be rude. You knew where you wanted to go when you came to stay with me. You knew who and what you were and that you had to make people see the inside-girl. I’m not like you. I’m older by decades and I’ve had a lot of my life. I never, truly never, have had the urges and needs that you held inside yourself. Never put people into a box, it’s cruel and basically wrong.”
She snuffled, “I said I was sorry. I said I wouldn’t push. I did.”
“Okay, darling. Let’s forget it for the moment. I’m going at my own pace. And some of the steps I’m not sure about and some of the steps are quite, er, um, nice.”
“Can you tell me some of the nice? And perhaps we can work on some of the less nice becoming better.”
“That’s a sensible suggestion. You’re getting closer to being an adult if you can say things like that.”
“I am nearly sixteen.”
“Oh, honey, adulthood isn’t an age – it’s a state of mind. It’s the ability to listen, to think of others, to do the right thing. Some people never become adult – they just get old and nasty.”
“But what do you like best about the new things you’ve been wearing?”
“It’s not actually anything to do with the clothes. Actually what I like best is being treated as a confident woman. I do the confident man thing – that comes naturally. But it’s what people expect. They treat me as just another bloke who has the advantage of many years at the university of life. But when a woman displays that level of confidence – people treat me so much better. They listen to me in ways that men never listen to other men. It’s wonderful.”
“That’s one of the good bits about being a confident woman. You taught me that. You also told me that the majority of men are amazingly willing to do what a confident women tells or asks them to do.”
“I’m not sure I put it that bluntly. Did I?”
“I don’t know who else I could have learnt it from. Daddy treats me mostly as a girl but makes mistakes. Mummy loves having a daughter but does wonder about the long-term effects of all the chemicals I’m going to haver to take. And both of them worry about how I’ll cope when I do get outed. Even if I do the outing at a time and place of my own control. They’ve read about how nasty people can get. How intolerant, ugly, vile. The stories about mental and physical abuse, even the deaths. And we’re all aware of the suicide rate. I know they tell me that I have their support and that’s got to be the biggest factor in not going down the suicide or self-harm route. But hat doesn’t stop them worrying. And that worries me. And the cycle begins so easily. So trying to be confident has to be the best choice. And I do think I’ve got you to thank for pushing me to think like that. Thanks G’ma.”
“Oh, honey. That’s so kind.” And I leant over, hugged her and kissed her cheek.
“And I like that too. It’s one thing that G’dad could have done but it seems you hug and kiss more easily. I like that improvement. It’s an extra sort of love. Thanks G’ma.”
I smiled. And I said so. “Thanks darling. What you said made me smile deep inside. Perhaps I’m growing up as well.”
There was a giggle. “If you’re growing up so late I still won’t tell Mummy and Daddy.”
I smiled even more.
How was this going to turn out?
I told myself - do what you told Frances. Be Calm, Confident and Certain. If you behave like a woman, expect to be treated as a woman, look (sufficiently) like a woman - then people will treat you as a woman.
