How dare you. I’m not gay!!

I knew at school that I was different. I was called ‘gay’ just for being different – cruel, ugly, untrue. Although I’d admit to being a bit puzzled about, erm, some aspects of life – yeah, alright, sex. Then things really got strange when I was at college and stayed with Aunt Maddie. And I learnt more than I ever expected about girls – in a new and different way. A story in two distinct sections.

---

It’s hard at school when you’re different. And the Big-O’Bigots come on the attack almost every day. I call them the Big-O’Bigots because they’re Big; they’re mostly Irish – so the O and they’re Bigots.

There’s things you can do to retaliate – but it’s best to be far away when the O’Bigots realize that something they don’t like has happened. I was there, albeit well out of range, when Charlie Foster delivered his most famous piece of revenge. Oh, it was just ….. special.

It was the day Charlie was leaving with his parents to go abroad – far out of reach of the nasties. During classes, he painted the cars of the three ringleaders pink. Bright pink – with extra lettering in red. Not all messy and splashy but neat, careful calligraphy. Stylish. He wrote ‘They call people gay; methinks they protest just tooo much’.

He’d obviously used a stencil – and he’d practiced too. But the slur stuck. Lots of the pupils who’d been hassled and abused by the senior O’Bigots wondered out loud, just enough to be obvious, ‘d’y really think it’s true?’ or other not-quite-below-hearing comments, ‘Was Charlie right about them’. Subtle. Exactly the sort of intelligent attack that confuses the average thug.

The O’Bigot leaders were furious and wanted to take their rage out on somebody, anybody. By next term – it was me.

And there’s the Gobits too. Yeah, I know – making jokes again – but they’re the God Bigots.

And after both of those nasty little-minded people – there were the ‘ordinary’ bigots. And aren’t there a lot of them. Too often they just don’t realize they’re being crass, unkind, stupid, ugly or plain nasty. It’s just ‘their way’ of wasting their lives.

But this term, I was suffering. I wasn’t gay or whatever word you prefer – but I was different. And golly, didn’t the nasties make me aware of their disapproval.

On and on they went. All the ugly words. And not just words. Pushing, shoving, knocking my books to the ground. Stealing my clothes during gym. Messing up my desk and my locker. But the teasing was never-ending. Pink paint all over my books was beyond a nuisance. Hacking the school records – we all knew who was the only one capable – so my name was changed to Philippa Gay. Only a few letters away from Philip Jay – but the school IT manager said he couldn’t change it back without a system restore and that would cost time and money. For the next month, all my files would come out as Miss Philippa Gay. Including any university applications – and the deadline was getting near. I guessed that the school hacker had done it.

My parents weren’t happy.

So I went on the attack – sort of. If ‘they’ were going to attack me for being gay then go beyond gay to girl or tomboy. I learnt that from Charlie. Be subtle. And Subtle could be Bold.

I began to dress much more borderline, edgy, or actually girly. I wore girl-cut jeans and blouses instead of my usual (and acceptable) uniform. I wore a necklace and a bracelet. I wondered about piercing my ears (not by me – getting them pierced! Silly.) It was quite fun going a bit over the top. And I actually liked, even enjoyed, some of things I allowed myself to wear.

I did explain what I was doing to my parents. They were a pretty laidback pair, having grown up in the sixties. Experimenting with clothes, appearance even behaviour wasn’t out of their range. They weren’t exactly happy with my choice – but they didn’t say no. And Mum helped by coming shopping a couple of times and showing me some tricks.

She said, ”you’d do better with that crowd or what you say about them anyway not to be openly gay – but let’s go with confusing them.’ If they’re that stupid …. who knows?”

Some time later, I was in the town centre and having a coffee. The BH (Bloody Hack) came up to me with an ugly sneery smile.

“Having a nice day, ‘Philippa’?”

“Not really. I’m trundling along with my daily life trying to keep a low profile, waiting for the right girl to turn up – and someone keeps telling lies about me. And two weeks ago, someone, I can’t guess who,“ glaring at him, “has screwed me up just that little bit extra so that my name comes out on all the college databases in an ugly twist on my proper name. Admin won’t or can’t be bothered to fix it – so my end-of-school documentation is all set to come out wrong. Whoever did it is nasty, abusive and god knows who else they have or will humiliate for their ever-so-clever reasons. So I’m trying to undermine the situation by pretending to wear a new camouflage – I’m hoping to distract some of the nastier criticism.”

BH looked amazed. Something seemed to have surprised him. Then he brought his ugly little mind back in line. “Whatch’er mean ‘the right girl’? Who’s going to be interested in a woofter like you.”

“Tedious though it is to tell yet another person who won’t take any notice – I’m not gay. I like girls. The last boy who pestered me got a knee in the bollocks, okay? I agree that I don’t love sport or cars or vulgarity or farting or leering at women or lesbians or BDSM or porn in its thousand different varieties or playing with my pecker the way that too many of my fellow ‘males’ like to do – but that doesn’t make me less male. Perhaps it merely makes me better educated. Or intelligent.”

“But everyone knows you’re gay!”

“Clearly I’m wasting my energy here. Who is likely to know better than me? Have you any evidence to prove that I am a liar? Have you got anything to prove that ‘they’ – whoever ‘they’ are – regularly tell the truth about any of their victims? You know their style. They casually pick on a target and then systematically bash it, bully it, harass it until it gives in. I’ll go a step further. I repeat what I just said – perhaps that makes me different from my so-called peers and equals. But does that equate to ‘deserving-to-be-bullied’. I think not. I suspect that many of those who are labelling me have some secret that would make them too ‘different’ if it was known. Some might even be judged unacceptable. Mud sticks. Remember the kid who was abused by his parents – is it your view that he ‘asked‘ for it. Idiot. The red-head who ran away in the middle of games rather than be hit ‘accidentally’ again - didn’t he ask for it? The kid who’s that bit stupid until they find he needs glasses – everyone knew he was the school idiot. Oh yes? Nasty vicious prejudiced – hateful.”

BH almost had a look of shame – but it soon faded. The sneer began to return.

Then I pushed a bit harder. “So what’s the secret YOU don’t want anybody to know?”

BH shuddered as if I had….... I don’t actually have the words for his expression. Then he leapt to his feet and he ran as if I had turned into something so vile, so horrid, so threatening that it was unbearable. He ran as I might if my nightmares were chasing me. Or as if he now had a nightmare of his very own. Retribution and her name is Nemesis.

That evening, all my records were corrected. A number of emails went out to the administration about misdemeanours and misbehaviours of various sorts. Not me. I truly didn’t do it. I didn’t have the skills. I still think it was BH unloading some of his past onto those who had made him or paid him to do whatever.

Various of the nastier nasties were ‘asked to visit the Head’. Overall, some twenty students decided to take a break – the rumour was that they could return next year provided they had demonstrated ‘better behaviour’. There was considerable amazement at some of those who were selected. Often it seemed it wasn’t the leaders as such but their number-twos; hitting the slimy Iago-types rather than the Othello-types.

BH disappeared too. And at times, as my life trundles slowly and hiccuply, sometimes I wonder what was so terrible about his secret that he couldn’t face it. I recalled a version of ‘Fly – All is discovered’ being attributed to Arthur Conan Doyle in about 1897; but the web (ever truthful) suggests the Boston Investigator, 23 August 1876 as the current earliest known source. Personally, I can’t believe there’s not a Roman or medieval version.

But along with this trundling, there were changes. Bullying reduced considerably. In fact, there was generally less nastiness. I didn’t get barged, shoved, pushed into lockers, knocked over. I was called names less often. And the few I did talk with – all in the ‘Different’ category – said that they weren’t being harassed as much as before.

The staff noticed too. Even the Head, Mr Joffrey, made it clear that he had noticed a ‘general improvement in the feeling of the school’. That’s what he dressed it up as at the Morning Meeting a few weeks later. Mr Tombs, our arts teacher, gave us the actual words from the staffroom. He told us that ‘Old Jaffa said at least the bullyboys and the bigots aren’t bashing six hells out of anyone they don’t like as much as they used to.’

This led to someone commenting that it was a bit strange that it wasn’t all the leaders who got the push. Gravestone (Mr Tombs) said ‘Should it have been Othello who got the criticism for being the manipulating bullyboy or Iago? Think about it.’

There was a mumbled chorus from several of us – especially those of us who’d read Othello. Henri asked why I grunted as if I understood. ‘What was with this Ofello guy?’

“Dur, Othello – it’s a play by Shakespeare, he was a black general in the Venetian army, he married a gorgeous white girl and his chum, a lying twisty toad called Iago tells him lies big enough and often enough that he gets jealous and eventually kills the girl. He’s manipulated into jealousy and rage. Perhaps the Head was smarter than we guessed.”

“Wha’?”

“The head got rid of the manipulators not the leaders who had been manipulated. He’s not so stupid, Our Mr Jaffa.”

“Unh.” Clearly Henri now understood.

A while later, just before the end of my last term, the head called a school meeting. “I’m pleased, no, I’m very pleased that there seems to have been a change at this school. For reasons unclear to me, a whole group of bullies as well as many of their nastier supporters have, um, decided to leave. Perhaps having video of some of their deeds passed to me might have something to do with it. To be blunt their behaviour was vile, evil if you prefer the stronger word.”

“You’re not alone in being bullied. It happens in the outside world too. I know this from my own experience – at school, at university and even in one of my sports clubs a few years back.”

“I’ve been given this pamphlet, and yes, as I often do, I’ve tweaked it. If ANYONE wants to take this and spread it wider then please do so. I have emailed it to every one of you. In a week or so, I will email it to your parents. There may be some who do not wish this – if so, then speak to me. I don’t like my flock having that sort of a problem.”

“As teachers, we care for you greatly. Overall, teachers care for you for some 200 days a year for more than half your day. It adds up to a lot of care. It is certain that some of us could do better, that some staff-pupil relationships could work better. But we will continue to try – because you are the future.”

--------------------------------------------------
Abuse happens too often. It is wrong.
Please talk to someone if you have been or are being hurt or damaged by another.
I have recently learnt more than I ever wanted to about abuse. Abuse is when one person causes pain, hurt, suffering or damage to another on purpose. Abuse can be physical, sexual, emotional or mental or even financial. Abuse can be done by action or by lack of action or by words or lack of words.
Abuse includes bullying, sarcasm, cruelty, nastiness, hitting, ignoring, teasing, coercion, forced obedience, ‘keeping secrets’, threats, violence, beatings, deprivation and so much more. The mother who never says ‘I love you’ causes hurt and suffering.
The person who is abusing is by definition uncaring about the victim. Until everyone tells the truth it will be impossible to know how much pain and suffering is happening - but there are some figures which offer a ghastly picture. And I repeat these two key facts – You are NOT alone; Your abuser doesn’t care.
Some research suggests that as many as 5 people in a hundred will at some time in their young lives be sexually molested, abused, mistreated or inappropriately cared for by parents, siblings, uncles, neighbours or their good friends. The law in Britain is that no adult may commit such behaviour on anyone under 18 even though the ‘age of consent’ is 16. But 5% is JUST the sexual abuse, abuse of power by adults for their sexual intent.
5% - it may not be true to say firmly that 5 people in each year at this school may have suffered in this way –but it is unlikely to be none and it is unlikely to be the ‘full’ rate of 10 out of a year-group of 200.
But we need to add Emotional Abuse – the parents who bully, the uncle who can only make clever-nasty remarks, the sarcastic teacher. There are all too many adults who can recall the nasty, vicious, unkind remark which has sunk deep into their heart. You may think of it as Mental or Psychological Abuse. It’s Abuse!
In one case, a man was told by his aunt, ‘you’re ugly, stupid and worthless. I wouldn’t waste spit on you’. Sometimes being called ‘stupid’ can be forgotten in a moment, but such a vile remark is designed to scar the soul. There are few figures for emotional non-physical abuse – but there is too much of it and it lasts longer than ‘mere’ physical abuse.
So - Physical Abuse as well – there is data from hospitals and police although cases reported to the police are well-known for being only some of the cases that do occur. Reading the literature, a figure of 3% does not seem unreasonable or 3 out of every 100. Even if some are double-counted because they are sexually abused too – this is far too many. And there’s the other damage from just living in a dysfunctional family.
If we add these varieties of abuse – we will see that parents or close relatives or carers or neighbours hurt as many as one in 10 children and that they do this on purpose or - at the most generous - they do it without caring, carelessly and casually. And it damages lives. It can damage lives for years and it can damage future generations. Abuse hurts.
These numbers mean that in every class of 30 pupils, there is likely to be one who has not been dealt a kind hand. In addition, there are those who have dealt with death, divorce, disability and just difficulties. And any time now, it might be YOU needing help, support, a kind word or a good deed.
Abuse is done by people to other people. It can be done to boys or girls by men or by women – even if there is evidence that much of it is by men to girls; especially so for sexual abuse. But emotional abuse is not gender-related. Mothers can do it to sons. Wives can do it to husbands. Physical abuse is not gender-related; Even if the common view of domestic abuse is that it is drunken husbands beating their wives who need refuges to go to - this does not explain the wife who pours boiling water on her husband. Whoever commits abuse – it is wrong. It is also wrong to ignore or condone. It is certain that some of you abuse in some way.
I referred to parents several times in this talk. I offer a startling notion – I am confident that almost none of your parents ever had a single lesson in ‘how to be a parent’.
If they were really lucky they only learnt good things from their parents. But my research makes it all to clear – parents almost never get taught how to be good parents. The parents who do think about going to such a class are probably already lined up to do the job quite well. The parents who really need help never even think of doing so.
When the time comes to think about being a parent – please ask for help.
The 6th of the 10 Commandments is ‘thou shalt not murder’ – well I believe that while murder refers to the body, so abuse is murder of the soul and abuse of a child is murder of their future. The deliberate causing of pain, hurt, damage or suffering is wrong.
Despite the newspapers preference that abuse only happens in poor families , this is not true. Abuse happens at every level of society. There are probably Peers, MPs, accountants, lawyers, priests, plumbers, bus-drivers, shop assistants and bartenders who do it. And of course the majority of these groups and members of these groups DO NOT commit abuse. But remember – in a big enough group there will be people, maybe even you or your friends, who have been hurt by the deliberate nastiness of other people.
If you have only learnt to relate to other people in nasty ways and have thereby hurt others – then that was wrong and you should face up to it, stop it and do better. People can help with that too.
The last days at school offer a wonderful opportunity. You are at a turning-point in your lives. If you have been hurt or damaged in any way – there are many people eager and willing to help you stop it NOW. They can help you get rid of any poison which has grown in the nastiness forced into you.
YOU are not to blame for any of the hurt done to you. Never say ‘I’m not worth it.’
As soon as you leave school – the big wide world is waiting for you. It knows nothing about you. It cares not whether you are a bully or a victim or neither or both. You have the opportunity to change what you have been and become new for a new challenge.
If you need help to do so – then ask. If you can’t ask your parents then speak out to someone you trust.
Believe me, I can promise that going onwards as a victim - as if with a label of ‘I’m a failure – beat me’ - is a horrid waste of years of your life. But I’m doing better now.
For those who are already hurt or are being hurt every day – it is almost impossible to mend yourself without facing up to what happened and moving past it. This will take time and it will hurt – but it will hurt differently – more like picking a huge raw scab. And because it is easier to get help when you are young & flexible - please ask for help.
If you have a friend who you think needs such help, lead them gently. While it is true that an addict can only become clean when they are ready, so also a victim can only break free when they are ready. If you need help, please ask.
You are not alone – others have been and are being abused and brutalised – like you.
Write down what happens, keep a diary, the law loves documents more than words.
Please ask for help now if you are being hurt by anyone.
Please ask for help if you are so hurt that you have to damage other people.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Become Free and Talk to your most trustworthy teacher - Your best friend -
or even Childline NSPCC …..or Samaritans – if you are feeling close to suicide.

II (Read aloud to an assembly, this takes some 6 or better 7 minutes.)
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I don’t want any of you to read too much into my reading out this pamphlet and making this announcement. It’s not my idea – although I approve. The district has been given some strong legal advice about how it should make everyone aware of the law and the guidance about every variety of abuse. I’ve been asked to start the ball rolling here at this school because of the noticeable change in the feel and morale of the school in the last weeks. I’m proud of how the school has altered – even if I have to be grieved that the school needed to change. But change was needed. I have to confess that I could not make it happen until new and better information was provided to me. But it was, I acted, and we know how things have changed. “

“I am telling you that there will still be unkindness, nastiness, rudeness, incompatibility, differences of opinion and alarming misunderstandings – but I hope none of this will be deliberate and none of it will be malicious. It is the deliberate planned nastiness which so easily escalates into abuse. I will not have it.”

“If anything occurs that a victim does not like then it is their perception of abuse that is the key to any action that I take. It may be that their perception needs to be helped along to a better understanding but their first reaction has to be a taken as a big signal.”

“I do not know the author – but from their language and phrasing, I guess, and it is a guess, that they are like me – male, middle-class, well-educated, probably white, probably English and likely to have avoided direct discrimination towards them. But, just to make it clear, most forms of discrimination are actually a form of abuse. And ALL Abuse is wrong.”

“Thank you for your time. I will be asking as many of you as possible to contribute to a small booklet which we shall publish – abuse I have seen or suffered.”

‘Well’, I thought to myself – that was a surprise. I also thought it impressive it was that the head had said both that he had suffered from bullying more than once even after leaving school. But I felt most pleased at the strong agreement that the tone of the school had improved ever since the Bloody Hacker had delivered his information and disappeared. I wondered, just a little, what had happened to him – but I was more glad that the Nasties, and the O’Bigots had mostly gone.

It was true what I had said – I wasn’t gay. I might have begun to wonder if I had some other issues. I didn’t feel like the average boy that girls and boobs and thighs and hoping-to-kiss and lying-about-fondling and boasting about, well, everything of that sort was THE main topic of conversation. I really wasn’t that interested. To be blunt, I didn’t understand many of the average male’s interests. I wasn’t a poof, fairy or anything like that either. I certainly didn’t fancy any bloke. Not my idea of social activity. I did like girls – but I understood them even less. In the simplest terms I was a very late developer.

I really didn’t have a clue. I had read about the recently identified category of ‘asexual’ and I did wonder if that might be a box that would fit. But I don’t and didn’t like boxes or labelling. Like I say, the most important box was for me ‘I’m not gay’. Beyond that I had little interest. If I had known about the label, I’d have probably called myself asexual.

Like many people, almost every boy and I believe some girls too, I had looked at porn and learnt (possibly badly) about the incredible range of strange behaviour singles, pairs, triples and groups could indulge in. Did I understand much of it – no. Did I get interested in much of it – no. Did the basic act of penis into vagina enthrall me – not much. Like I said – little interest.

I knew the statistics say at what age the girl or boy becomes sexually active, and I know the there’s still 10% inactive by the time they’re 21. To me, there didn’t seem much problem yet. Hopefully the passing of time and the arrival of more chemicals would see to the necessary.

There was really nobody I could talk to about this. My parents were mildly incompetent as far as giving advice on that sort of subject. I think my father’s main effort was, “Girls and things, I guess you know everything you need from the web-thing and what others tell you. Do I need to add anything?”

What was I supposed to say. I just thought ‘how can you not be grown-up enough to talk about these important things. Aren’t you lucky that I’m not really interested’. Of course I should have said something, asked questions. Perhaps even how do Love and Sex interlink – that would have been enlightening. It might have even given me some insight into their marriage.

------------------------------------------

How life can change!

Some months later I went to spend a week or so with Aunt Maddie. My parents were going on a break to Austria and Aunt Maddie made the offer for me to stay. She and I were the misfits in the family. She was about 5 foot three, I was about an inch shorter but slowly growing – everyone else in the family was nearly six foot, including my mum or well over. At seventeen, I wasn’t expecting to grow much more – but I could hope.

Anyway, it was pouring the day I set off on the train. When I reached the coast and got off, it was still bucketing. I set off to the cottage, because I knew the way and it wasn’t very far. But I was drenched within a few yards. I had a faint hope that Auntie would pick me up – but no. So I stomped on through the rain and now hail to the bottom of the hill. And fell over. I didn’t care what happened to the suitcase but scooped it up and tried to run the last hundred yards or so to the cottage.

Steaming faintly, Aunt M and I looked at the damage.

“You are a mess, young Philip. Upstairs w’ you and get dried off.”

I slithered wetly upstairs to the room at the left. I dried off and opened the suitcase. It was a modern one, all cloth and no strength. It had leaked. What clothes I had were soggy or drenched.

“Auntie, I’ve got a problem. Can you come up.”

Fortunately, by then I was wearing the dressing-gown that had been in the bathroom. Not really boyish but not too girly either – pale green with wavy dark green lines. It was all there was – so I wore it.

“Oh that was sensible of you,” said Aunt M. “I did wonder how you would cope.”

“It’s not the usual thing I would wear.” I grinned as I said it. “For verily ‘tis a garb over-feminine for aught but an emergency.”

“And so I must agree. That this is indeed an emergency. You wot not of the condition of thy remnant remnants. Drab and soiled and beyond the possibility of adequate condition for, yay, some 24 hours or more. What durst we do.”

Yeah, too much Shakespeare was read in both our houses. And equally yes, this was my forced introduction to 24 hours of auntie’s clothing. What she offered was a pair of panties, no surprise there, a pair of popsocks to wear in her old ballet-flats, some shorts – without a fly again no surprise, and a blouse.

It was the blouse that made me say, “well, I suppose that’s really pretty good seeing as you likely have nothing boy-suitable in the house. But, no T-shirts, I’m surprised. Does it have to be this?” and I pinched the material between finger and thumb to indicate my, um, disdain.

“Nope, not a clean T in the house – so that’s your lot. That’s as good as I can manage – and I see little to complain about. You don’t look too bad. Have a look in that mirror.”

I looked – and looked again. I didn’t really recognise the person in the mirror. Not the normal image I was used to - but somehow it felt wrong too.

I don’t know what expression I did have when I turned to see what Aunt M’s expression was. She had her chin held by her hand while she was obviously thinking hard. “How do you want to play this, honeychile?”

“Moving from Shakespeare to Blanche Dubois, eh? Don’t know. It’s your house, your rules.”

“I remember you talking last year and saying how little knowledge, how little experience, you had with girls. Would you like to understand them better? I’ve got a cunning plan.”

“Ah, so, Mistress Baldric – and vot is zis cunning plan?”

“If you like and if you feel comfortable with the idea, we can go down to town, look around the market, have a coffee and a sandwich – what d’you think?”

“What, today, dressed like this you mean. As a girl, I don’t think so.”

“Normally, I’d agree with you – and you certainly don’t want to be showing up as anything like a girly-boy or sissy or whatever. I can set you up so that no one, not even your mother, would recognise you as Philip. Want to give it a try? You don’t know anyone here after all – not this far from home. And you would have a wonderful opportunity to girl-watch. As well as learning what some of our clothes feel like.”

“There is truth in what you say. Let’s have tea and a biscuit (the family cure for all problems) while you persuade me.”

Truly, my dear, twill take but a touch of lippy and eyeshadow, a tousle of your hair into a more feminine style, mayhap a necklace and some fancy gauds – and Snap – thou wilt look goodly girlsome.”

“Let’s see what you deliver before I consent. Mayhap thou hast switched places with my loveable Aunt Maddie and become a nameless hag concealed ‘neath a camouflage of beauty. Akin to the foul, fell red toadstool which can rip apart the life of mortaL being.”

Aunt M put on her hag-voice, Don’t you trussssst me, little one.”

I did (enough). She did enough. We went out more than enough.

Aunt M had said the market and the coffee-shop. But not all the shops. Nothing about buying anything for me. Truly, I thought she was buying for herself. Dumbo. How did I not guess. Because I was a boy – just pretending for a day because I was in femme-camouflage.

At the coffee-shop, Aunt M met some of her friends. Again, hindsight tells me that she expected to meet them. There was a lot of lady-like 'hello, hello, how are you, fine, and you etc etc.'

Then Auntie started introducing me. ‘This is my niece, Philippa. She’s staying for a day or so. Don’t stare, Mandy, be nice. She doesn’t look nearly as much of a tomboy as your two did last year. There’s a lot to be learnt as a tween and teen about being a girl.”

I didn’t have a clue.

Because there was a kerfuffle at Dad’s work as soon as he got back and he was working stupid hours, and Mum too for different reasons – there was an agreement that I stay with Auntie for a few more weeks. By the end of this I knew a lot more.

I knew for instance that I enjoyed being dressed up – I especially enjoyed sundresses with their bright colours and light flippy cool style. I loved panties rather than pants.

I knew now that Mandy’s two children had never been tomboys. They had been BOYS but now they were, um, let’s say, more flexible. I first met them properly after about two weeks of tuition from Auntie. It was at the salon where I had agreed to get my hair cut into a more femme style; pixie it was called.

They were there too. Their hair was longer and they had many more choices. I thought they were looking rather pretty and their new hairstyle looked lovely; and I said so. They were so pleased. Jackie squeaked, “It’s so lovely to be told we’re looking pretty. So kind of you. And that style really suits you too.”

Andrea was the quieter of the two. “Thank you, Philippa.”

For some strange, even stupid, reason I said, “Isn’t it funny how we all have names that are sort of a variation on a boy’s name.”

“Philip-pa, didn’t you realize, we’re boys. I’m Andrew but when I’m dressed up I’m called Andrea. And Jackie is either Jac or Jacqueline, depending. Are we going to guess that you’re the same.”

I couldn’t answer, I was alternate shades of scarlet and white.

“Don’t be so silly dear. You’re not alone. There’s at least seven others our age in this town alone.”

I felt my eyebrows disappearing into the top of my head as my eyes went wide. “What? Really? How? Why? I can’t believe it.” Looking back, I’m shocked at how minimal my reaction was.

“It was Sandy’s mum who started it all. Sandy was being a real pest. On her way to juvenile prison or even real prison in a few years. Not just teenage pranks, but unkind things, nasty stuff. Damaging property and cars and stealing. Really bad. Then she got caught by Jenny’s mum – with a pair of expensive earrings. Major catastrophe as far as SHE was concerned.”

“Both the mums knew of something on the east coast called the Sisterhood. They had this system for teaching macho boys about how damaged they were with testosterone and how exposure to the feminine side would allow them to rebalance themselves and become sane again. They treat excess testosterone as a sort of poison – and dressing up and being as real a girl as possible is one antidote. It’s working for us. So the near-criminal Alexander became Sandra now Sandy, Patrick became Anya, Andy is Annette or Annie, I’m Andrea, and here’s Jackie, oh, and there’s William now Wendy and his brother Ken is Camilla. I’m pretty sure that our neighbour Ben is going to be Brenda the way he’s been carrying on. So there’s lots of us. And did you say that you were a boy too, I wasn’t listening. But it’s such fun. I do so love my dresses.”

“So how badly were you behaving?”

“Not as bad as Sandy. But we were slacking a school, failing to do our homework. Pestering the girls. All sorts. Maybe not so bad – but we are learning and doing better. Otherwise we wouldn’t be allowed to come to this salon.”

The lady dealing with Jackie murmured, “How right you are, my pretty girl. Nicely said – but perhaps a little too informative to someone you’ve not met often before. Eh?”

“Do you think your mother would approve of how you’ve been talking?”

“Oh, please don’t tell on us, Mariette.”

I echoed this. “I already knew most of this. I only didn’t know that this was quite a long-term thing and that there were as many as seven others.”

“No, no, Philippa – seven of our age. There’s lots of others. Not so many younger – but lots older.”

Eyebrows were now reaching the back of my head. Mariette saw my expression and said to Andrea “Bad girl. I said you were taking a risk, that was a warning – and you open your silly mouths more. We all know the cure for that, don’t we?”

Jackie giggled and whispered to me, “we get put into ultra-girly outfits for a while - but we have to be careful not to show we enjoy them - as some of us do. Wendy's mum made him eat a piece of soap for some of the things she said.”

I interrupted, “Oh, Mariette, please don’t do or say anything. Please. I’m sure they meant no harm.”

“Ah, yes. Meant no harm – but were careless with their thinking and their silly little lip-flapping. Alright, girls, you are saved – a bit.”

“But Mariette, only us boy-girls get that …… Oh, Oh my, do you mean really Philippa IS one of us. Oh great. That’s wonderful. I was only joking earlier. I was perhaps hoping that Philippa could join us. It’s been such fun the last year or so.”

My interest was at an all time high. “So what’s been the best bit?”

“It took time – but the best bit is realizing that we are becoming nicer people. We both want to go back to being men – but we love the idea of being able to dress up now and again. Well, rather often actually. It’s been fun a lot of the time. But there have been special times. I remember my first stockings after my legs had been shaved – oh wondrous feel of slide and slither. For Jackie, she loved her first bra more than anything else. Mind you, not the baby-bra things which are little more than strange-shaped vests but when she was allowed her first expensive boobage to put into a bra. 30-B wasn’t it, sweetie?”

“30A and you know it. But I love petticoats too, the way they make my dress billow and flow. Such fun. And I love having long hair. That’s probably the bit I like best now,” was Jackie’s response.

“I never knew anything about this. I had this accident running in the rain to Aunt Maddie’s and all my clothes were completely soaked and muddied. There wasn’t any choice, I had to wear whatever she offered. It’s not as if there were any men in her house. So girl clothes while my own things were sorted out. But it seemed fun to wear skirts for a day or two – and, somehow, I still quite like it. I like the colours most of all, I think.”

“You’re lucky you were just visiting and not here for ‘sistering’ into the club. Then your clothes would have got ruined some way or another and you’d still have finished up wearing skirts and frills. Be thankful that wasn’t what happened to you.”

“Do you get the chance to decide anything for yourself?”

Mariette butted in, “I think you’d better reveal no more of the Sister system, dears. Do I need to speak to your mother or your Big Sister?”

The two girls (well, that’s how I thought of them – despite their shocking revelation) paled at the implied threat. “Sorry Mariette,” they both said – very clearly and firmly.

Now this had me wondering. I didn’t like the idea that any of my friends – or me – was being manipulated. That went against everything I believed in. After all, hadn't I been part of the Head reading out that pamphlet on abuse. Was I being abused? I began to wonder? What answer would I get if I asked?

But was I enjoying wearing pretty clothes – yes.

Was I learning about girls – well, yes again – even if several of them were femme-boys. This was putting my brain into a twirl.

I was confused – but still happy with most of what was happening. But at the back of my mind was ‘what will happen when this holiday is over? Will my parents get to know? How will they react? How did I want them to react? Was I hooked on panties and frills?”

So many questions – so few answers. Did I want to ask Aunt M what was going on? If there was a plan of any sort to put me into dresses?

What answers did I want? Was I going to scream, shout, get angry or submit? Was I now Philippa – or had this been just a brief (pun – sorry) adventure.