Leader of the Pack Part 1

I have to admit that seeing my picture on the front page of the Sunday paper was a shock. For most people it would be a pleasant one, the fifteen minutes of fame that is often promised but hardly ever given. It was not, for me, very good news at all.

When I saw it I was frozen on the spot and then slowly looked around, expecting to see a hoard of people yelling “There she is!” That would be a bit of a stretch as I am a guy and this morning I looked like a guy; or, at least, I hoped I did. I suppose I had better tell you how all of this came about. It started, as a lot of good stories do, in a pub.

When I was born, my parents were well steeped in that ‘upstairs downstairs’ show that was set in the English castle and went crazy when they christened me. Many names can be hard to live with but being called Bertram Oliver Granger led to me going through my school days as either Bog or Shithouse. At least they didn’t call me Fatty or Beanpole, even though I would have qualified for the latter. I wouldn’t have minded if my folks had called me Billy Joe or something more in keeping with our lowly social standing. My father always put on an air of respectability when he spoke to me, as if I was expected to pull the whole family up the ladder of social standing.

My two sisters were let off the hook; Maisie and Lilly Granger had no worries about what they were called, even if I thought of them as the ‘Wicked Sisters’ behind their backs. My schooling was so unspectacular that I ended up working as a bicycle courier but it kept me fit and I met a lot of nice people. My name badge read BO Granger and everyone I knew called me Bog. Of course, when I managed to deliver things on time and to the right place for a couple of weeks it was referred to as the ‘Bog Standard’ and I was told to make sure I kept it up or else my job would surely be in the Shithouse. This was conveyed to me with much merriment.

I lived, as to be expected of me, in a haze of work, sleep and alcohol, a bit too much of the latter at times. One Friday evening I was with the lads at the pub and I was fast becoming four sheets to the wind when a bunch of girls came in, my sisters among them. Usually they kept to themselves and we did likewise. This night, however, they were riled up about a local politician who had been found out about his sexual encounters with a staffer who did not appreciate the attention, especially when he declared that it was all consensual and that she had egged him on.

The girl in question, Sally, was a school-chum of my sisters and this crowd was determined to stand up for her and march on the Town Hall on Saturday. They were riled enough to march tonight but even the most pissed maiden would find it difficult to create any media interest outside a dark building at midnight. My mates thought it was all a hoot and a good opportunity to side with the girls tonight to see if they could cop a leg-over, or, at least a knee-trembler in the alley next to the pub.

One of the girls there, Kelly, was a bit of a crush of mine and I got beside her and agreed heartily with all she was ranting on about. So much so that one time I agreed loudly she grabbed me and gave me a big kiss that almost blew my mind. I order to have more of her attentions I started creating slogans for them to shout and, before I knew it, I was elected to lead the march in the morning. I was too drunk to decline and, unfortunately, also too drunk to be any good for Kelly if we got outside later, which did not happen anyway. She was finding hard to stay upright herself so I suppose it was all for the best.

My sisters made sure I got home and they pushed me onto my bed with the words “We will sort you out in the morning”. I wondered what they were talking about; I hadn’t done anything to them so any ‘sorting out’ would not be fair. With those thoughts I faded into the darkness of inebriation.

Saturday morning dawned much too loudly for me. My sisters burst into my room and hauled me upright, getting me naked before I knew what was happening. They did have the decency to help me to the toilet and sat me on the seat just in time before my bladder exploded. While I sat there dazedly, one went and ran a bath. I mean to say; who on earth has a bath in the morning and it wasn’t even a Sunday. It turned out that the smelly bath was for me and, while I was in it, they shaved my arms, legs, face and armpits first and then got me to sit up while they did my back and front. By this time I was starting to get some senses back and complained. I was told that no scruffy lout would lead their wonderful march and, as I had been elected the leader, I needed to look, and smell, the part.

When I said that this didn’t mean that I would have to look like an Olympic Swimmer they told me that it did mean that I had to look somewhat female or else the newspapers would laugh at the protesters. Fancy protesting against a guy and being led by one; it would not be a good look. I suppose I saw the logic, I think.

Before I was allowed out of the bath they got me to wash my hair twice in the shampoo they gave me to use. This was followed by some gloop they called conditioner. I was not one of those skinhead lager louts and did wear my hair long, usually in a pony-tail when I was working. Actually, I couldn’t remember going out with it unless it was pulled together with an elastic band. When I was out of the bath I was told to dry and then Lilly dragged me into her room while Maisie had a quick bath of her own.

She lathered me with cream on my, now hairless, body and then told me to put on some panties that she thrust my way. This time I did put my foot down but it was all washing through one ear and out the other. I could not achieve the look they were after without proper clothes and I finally relented when she picked up a pair of scissors and threatened to cut my dick off if I couldn’t be bothered to hide it properly. As she was a few years older than me, not to mention several pounds heavier, I pulled the panties on and pushed my dick between my legs. When I looked down I nearly fainted as it looked as if I had become a girl.

The next embarrassing moment was when she got me to put my arms out and she threaded one of her old bras on them, quickly going around my back and fastening it. She added some plastic things to the cups and I suddenly looked so much like a girl I had to sit on her bed as I hyperventilated. She took the opportunity to pull a pair of short stockings on my legs and put a pair of jeans in my hands and told me to pull them on. They were very tight on my legs and almost impossible to do up until she got me to stop trying to pull them up so far. They sort of sat on my hips. The last thing she did was to put a gauzy blouse over my head and arrange it so I showed a bit of cleavage. It was long sleeved so it hid my shapeless arms.

She took me through to Maisies’ room and sat me at the vanity. Maisie came in from her bath and told Lilly that the water was still warm so Lilly went off to have a quick one herself. Maisie told me to sit where I was while she got dressed. It took her about five minutes to do what had took me fifteen, but, there again, I was complaining a lot. Now Maisie worked in a salon and had all the torture instruments needed to give me the look she was after. I was resigned to let them do their thing by now, if only to get into their good books so that they could help me catch Kelly.

By the time Lilly came back, washed, dried and dressed, Maisie had wreaked her magic on me and I must say I looked almost like a hottie. She had worked on my brows and painted my face to look really good. My dirty blonde hair was now curled and framed my face. My lips were bright red and shiny and I now sported inch long fingernails in the same colour. I was ordered not to try and rub my eyes as I may blind myself and also make sure I didn’t rub against anyone as I would leave a smear.

The last ignominy before we went down for breakfast was having to put on a pair of Lillys’ boots with three inch heels. I nearly fell over but they got me walking up and down the corridor until I could master the technique. I was glad my father had already left for his early shift at the brickworks or it would have been a total embarrassment. As it was my mother ribbed me rotten until the girls told her that I was doing a good thing that they were very happy about and that she should be proud of me for going along with the protest march.

Over breakfast I was told several times to slow down and take smaller mouthfuls and not to burp. It was, I gathered, my introduction to a more genteel way of life and I had to do my best not to be outed. It was then I realised that ‘out’ was something I now was expected to do. I had a surge of doubt but the sisters ganged with my mother and I was told that I could do it and be a heroine for Kelly and that they were certain that Kelly would be very happy to see me this way. This was said with them smirking a bit but I took that as them being happy for me if I got together with Kelly.

Marianne G 2021