My Saturday Job

Although working on a market stall each and every Saturday was a bit of a chore, the extra money made it all worth it. Some of my school friends thought I was a 'dag' for having a job, but they were also envious that I had more spending money than they had. They teased me for working on a stall that sold the most horrendous fashions, and on that note, I completely agreed with them. “I only sell them, I don't wear them!”

“Who does wear them?” my friend Jemma asked.

“I dunno.” I shrugged. “Girl's with no sense of style or no choice in what they wear.” I replied. “Thank god my mother doesn't shop there!”

“Same here!” replied Jemma. “Even if my mum did buy me something from your stall... I'd just refuse to wear it.”

I couldn't agree more as I helped put up the stall on Saturday morning. Some of the styles were so horrendous that no one in their right mind would buy them, let alone wear them. We seem to sell to a lot of aunts and grandmothers buying gifts for nieces and granddaughters, so much so I tend to ask if it's a gift whenever I sell to an unaccompanied adult. “Is it for your daughter?” I ask one stern looking lady as she purchases a particularly horrible frock. Normally I follow this with “I'm sure she'll love it.” or “I'm sure she'll look lovely in it.” or something like that, but this particular lady left me completely aghast. “Sorry?” I asked, certain I'd misheard her. “Did you say....?”

Dawn of the Genderquake

My mother and aunt sat watching TV whilst I peered aimlessly in to my smart phone's mesmerising screen... as usual.

“It reminds of when those skin tight jeans first came into fashion.” my aunt said as she and mum sat bemused in front of the TV. “Or deelie boppers.” she added with a grin.

“What are deelie boppers?” I asked.

Mum described the novelty headband to me and I knew exactly what she was talking about. “We never thought they'd catch on either but they did.” she added, before turning back to the TV.

They were watching the local news programme which reported on a protest outside one of the high street stores. The footage showed a small group of people holding home made banners bearing the slogan 'let boys be boys' and chanting the same four words over and over. The scene cut to the interior of the store and showed racks of dresses and frocks on display... then my jaw dropped when the presenter began to speak. “This may look like any other high street store, but all is not as it seems as this...” he gestures to the display of frocks, skirts and dresses, “...is the boy's department.”

“I think it's scandalous.” my mother commented.

“I think it's about time.” my aunt added before turning to me. “Would you like to wear a dress Peter?” she asked.

“No way!” I exclaimed. “Only girls wear dresses.”

“Maybe not for much longer.” she grinned.

Summerday Sands

Mum took my sister and I for a day out at the seaside, and being a typical girl, my sister couldn't decide whether to wear her pedal pushers and a t-shirt, a sun-dress or her playsuit. I on the other hand wasn't bothered. I had my cargo shorts and my sporty sandals which meant I could paddle in the rock pools and play on the rocks. “Right Sarah!” Mum snapped, clearly getting impatient with her indecision, “Just put your sandals on, and put either your sun-dress or your playsuit in your bag in case you change your mind, and get in the car... please.”

Torn between three outfits, one of which she was wearing, Sarah seemed strained to decide. She screwed her face up, asked if she could bring both, was told 'no', screwed her face up again and left her favourite sun-dress behind in favour of her favourite playsuit. Why girls describe so many different clothes as their favourite I'll never know. I have a favourite t-shirt and a favourite pair of trainers and that's it. Sarah has her favourite pink top, her favourite blue top, her favourite this top and that top, and that's just her tops. Wait 'til she starts talking about skirts, dresses, pants!!!

When we arrived, the tide was miles out from the shore and the craggy rocks  and the sands were open for our exploration. Sarah and I ran around the marshes that sat just above the high tide mark. This flat expanse of grass was scarred with a myriad of shallow pools which were great fun to leap over but not to paddle in, being stagnant and seemingly lifeless. Being a boy, I was always keen to show off by trying to prove that I could jump further and better than my sister, and being my sister, Sarah was always setting me challenges.

“Be careful you two!” our mother hollered as ran across the marsh, jumping the pools and enjoying the freedom of the seaside. We took it in turns leading the way and much to my displeasure, Sarah managed to leap even the widest pools. When it was her turn to lead the way, I was confident that I'd be able to keep up because she is after all, just a girl. But my confidence was soon dissipated as she managed to leap across a pool that I felt was far too wide for me.

“Come on Peter!” Sarah said. “If I can do it surely you can.”

A Surrogate Sister

A picture is worth a thousand words, and this is no exception...

...although in this case it's around eighteen-thousand words.

It doesn't take a massive leap to imagine the girl on the right could really be a boy.
One could imagine any number scenarios which could precede 'her' eldest brother's graduation day....

Here's mine.

A Surrogate Sister

My brothers and I were all concerned about our mother. A few years ago she was a normal happy mother, full of the joys of spring, so to speak. But after the doctors told her that she could no longer have children, meaning she wouldn't have the daughter she'd always longed for, she fell into a deep depression. This caused an ever growing rift between her and dad, and eventually he just upped sticks and left us. Not surprisingly her depression got worse. So much so she ended up in hospital for a couple of weeks and our Aunt Vera came to look after us until our mother had got herself well again. But she was never the same as she used to be. George, Andrew and I all knew there was a hole in her heart... and if any of us knew anything about heart surgery, we'd do whatever we could to fix it.

One Saturday morning she was in a particularly chirpy mood. She sat us around the table and announced that she'd come up with a solution to our 'family problem'. “How would you boys like to have a sister?”

Knowing that was the one thing our mother longed for, we all said “Yes” but knew that she couldn't have children any more. We also knew that she'd also been turned down for adoption and fostering, most likely due to her history of depression. “But how?” George asked.

“Well, I've done lots of reading and spoken to all the right people.” she said, “And I've made all the necessary arrangements... well, as far as I can at this early stage.” she told us with enthusiasm. “But once the ball is rolling, I expect our problems will be over in no time at all!”

“Great!” each of us said in our own way. “But where's she coming from?”

“Well, that's where you come in.” she said with an expectant smile on her face. "All I need is for one of you brave and beautiful boys to volunteer."

Double Trouble

 

 

Neither myself nor my brother could believe this was happening as our mother opened the double doors of our wardrobe to reveal a resplendent display of skirts, blouses and dresses. “You honestly don't expect us to wear those do you?” Peter asked.

Half Term

At first, the idea of going to a boarding school filled me with as much dread as it did excitement... now, eight weeks in, I'm preparing to go home for the half term break. Unlike those who attend daily, us borders have to wear our school uniform in the evenings and on the weekends too. Whilst this may seem unfair at first... it's a common rule in many boarding schools. However there are some rules at St Ursula's which aren't very common...

~oOo~

Saturday

It's Saturday morning and I can't wait to return home, see my mum, meet up with my friends and wear my own clothes for a change! On my bed is a small suitcase, inside which is the jeans, t-shirt and jumper, along with the shoes and socks I'd arrived wearing some eight weeks ago. It felt strange wearing 'civilian' clothes after two months in uniform.

I packed the books I’d need, closed the case and clicked the latches shut, before going to the school's office to collect my train ticket. The 55 mile journey home should take around 90 minutes. I made sure my room was all in order; bedding straight, floor swept, en-suite bathroom spotless and my uniform items all neatly folded on my shelf, or hung from my clothes rail... ready and waiting for my return in a week's time. I looked forward to a whole week away from the rules, the routine and the academia of boarding school. Saying that, I do have a number of homework assignments to do during the week long break, hence my small case being half full of both text and exercise books.

I made my way from the dorm, down the long corridor towards the stairs and ultimately to the school's reception desk. “Where do you think you're going?” a stern voice called as I descended the wide wooden staircase.

“Home Miss.” I replied.

“Not dressed like that your not... you know the rules.” Miss Holbeck said in the same stern tone.

“But I'm going home Miss... to Beckford.” I said, lifting my small suitcase a little as if its mere presence validated my claim. “...on the train.” I added.

“Nevertheless, the rules state that you should be in uniform at all times. And that includes travelling to and from the school.” she replied.

“But...”

“But nothing child.” she interrupted, “Your own clothes were in your case so that you could take them home, not for you to wear on the way home.” she stated, before telling me in no uncertain terms to return to my room and “...make yourself presentable!” as she put it.

My Sister's Birthday

“Oh that's not fair!” I sulked. “She came to my birthday party.”

“Yes and your sister knows how to behave herself... unlike you David.” mum replied. “Close your eyes.” she said.

I closed my eyes tight shut as mum rinsed the shampoo from my hair. Jug after jug of water ran off my head and over my face, splashing off my shoulders and into the bath. Once rinsed, I opened my eyes.

“Now I want you to be a good boy and stay in your room until the girls have gone. Do you understand?”

“But I don't want to stay in my room when Janet's having a party. I want to join in.”

“You want to tease her friends, make fun of their dresses, pull their hair and be the centre of attention David.” my mother stated. “And for that reason, you shall stay in your room... out if sight, and out of mind.”

Ready for Bed

Mother and I had driven up the M1 to spend the week with my cousins and aunt in Nottinghamshire. Since my mother began petticoating me a few months ago, this was a rare opportunity to spend some time wearing my boy clothes. As the car pulled up outside their house, my mother reminded me to be a good boy, otherwise she'd pull my pants down and spank my bottom in front of everyone.

“Yes mum.” I promised.

Being a petticoated boy, my mother insisted that I’d be wearing my knickers beneath my boy clothes everyday... so if she did pull my pants down in front of everyone, they'd all see my frilly knickers and the cat would be out of the bag.

The Salon Solution

Peter’s mother visited Margo's Hair Salon every fortnight and as a result, knew the proprietor, Margo very well. As well as the usual soap operas, holidays, celebrity gossip and current affairs conversations, Peter himself is often the subject of their biweekly chats. Like many sixteen year old boys, he gets up to mischief once in a while, but since he got in with a certain 'crowd', his mother fears he's headed down the wrong path.

“When he was little I'd threaten him with a dress... which always did the trick.” she reminisces. “But he's too old for petticoating.”

“Petticoating?” Margo asks.

“You know... a naughty boy plus a pretty dress equals a good boy.” Peter’s mother replies.

“You put him in a dress when he was naughty?” Margo quizzes, clearly taken aback at the revelation.

“Yes, occasionally... more often than not just the threat of a dress would curb his behaviour.” she replied. “You must have heard of petticoating?”

“Well... I'm familiar with the concept, but haven't heard it called 'petticoating' before.” Margo replies, “...and I had no idea people actually did it.”

“Only when he was really naughty. He used to look quite sweet in a dress... obviously he hated it but...”

The door opened and a customer entered. Margo welcomed the lady and asked her to take a seat. Margo changed the conversation to one more 'mainstream' as she finished Peter’s mother's hair. Before long she was finished. Peter’s mother paid, booked her next appointment and left.

Petticoating for Schoolboys

I thought this Proactive Parenting guide was one of a kind...

But then I found this...

...a handy booklet by somebody who really knows what they're talking about.

Drenched

After three fantastic days camping with old friends, I faced the most miserable journey home. Yesterday evening the fine weather broke and having rained throughout the night and throughout today, I'm soaked, muddy and desperate for a lift. A good hitching place doesn't often have any shelter and this is no exception. I know I look a state and don't really blame those who'd rather not have me dripping in their car. But it's mid afternoon; I’ve had my thumb out for almost four hours and have travelled a measly 20 miles. 

The weather is getting worse and the chances of being seen, let alone getting a lift are becoming increasingly slim. Then, just as I’d given up hope, a pick-up truck begins to slow down and pull in. Even if he'd only take me a few miles I’d be happy to get out of the rain, but the miserable git put me in the back of his pick-up. Ten miles later he dropped me off at a remote roundabout. I wished I’d declined the lift when I realised the passing traffic at this location was near zero. 

The few cars that did pass weren't stopping, and if i knew the area I'd have walked to a better location. Unlike the traffic, the time slowly passed by and the rain lashed down rapidly.  I must have sat for a good two of three hours when a car not only appeared, but stopped.

A pretty woman a few years older than myself, possibly in her early twenties wound down the window and asked where I was going. I replied and not surprisingly, she wasn't going that far, but could take me up to junction 6; about 30 miles. “Well, if you're sure?” I replied half-heartedly, “I am in a bit of a state.” I added looking down at myself.

“Hop in... it's a bit of banger anyway.” she smiled, “Put your backpack in the boot.” she said, opening it remotely.

“Thanks for this.” I said as I climbed in the passenger seat. “I'm sorry about the state of me...” I added, drawing her attention my filthy clothing. “...my last lift was in the back of a builder's pick up.”

Growing up is hard to do

This story is Inspired by Jamie Vesta's 'Genderquake' over at Eves Rib, and in particular,
the post titled "You'll Wear What You're Told To Young Man"

Peter’s childhood was relatively normal; he played army with his friends, climbed trees, had a train set and loads of action figures and liked nothing more than his trusty old jeans with a hole in the knee, a zip up hoodie and his thoroughly worn in trainers.

His mother, Helen is an architect and his father worked part time in a biscuit factory. Helen often told her husband that he could give up work as her wage alone could easily support their family, but he was proud to work and wished he could get more hours and maybe even a promotion. But with more women in the boardroom, more women get promoted and as such, Peter's dad had been stuck on the shop floor for years whilst his mother's career went from strength to strength. When Peter was seven years old his father became permanently stuck to the shop floor when a section of racking collapsed, tragically killing him on the spot. Ever since that day, Peter has been raised solely by his mother.

With the support of his family and teachers, Peter faired relatively well with the loss of his father. The nearest thing Peter had to a father figure in his junior years was Ron Blakely; a widower in his fifties. Mum called him the handyman but mostly he Hoovers and irons, dusts and washes up. He used to be a proper handyman but as the work dried up for him, he diversified into a more domestic realm as that was one area which the women weren’t taking over. Even then, Ron found it hard to earn enough to support himself as more and more men were being laid off, leaving them plenty of time to tend to such chores. “In my day they used to call 'em kept men … if a bloke didn't have a job he was a sponger, too lazy to work ... these days they call 'em stay-at-home-husbands and it's supposed to be a good thing... times change lad... times change.” Ron said to an eight year old Peter.

Ron had to give up working altogether due to ill health and since then the ironing and laundry has been done by an agency; run by women, worked by men. Between the two of them, Peter and his mother kept on top of the hoovering and dusting.

Peter's mother gave him the freedom to strive to be all he could be and encouraged him to try his best, “Even if you're not very good at something, your best is good enough.” she used to tell him.