Chapter I. Memories.
On our wedding day I think I was still in a daze. I had loved Chris since we were at school together – since I was thirteen. I guess I was a shy sort, and kept my feelings to myself, but I’m pretty sure none of my peers, however much they fancied her, were afflicted by my depth of adoration. She was a gymnast, ballet-dancer, and ice-skater. She was in the county junior athletics team, and had danced with the Junior National Ballet. She was lithe, strong, and flexible – and so pretty! Every Christmas she gave ballet and gymnastics demonstrations at the end of term show. She was just as proficient on the ice. We were taken ice-skating once a fortnight, and I remember staring at her in wonder, as I gingerly stepped around the edge of the rink, enthralled by her physical beauty, and by the grace of her movements.
It was a year before I plucked up courage even to talk to her, and then another three before I stammeringly asked her out for a drink. I must have been expecting a refusal, or an excuse, because when she said, “okay – that would be nice,” it took a few seconds to sink in. I think she realised, because she looked at me a gave a little warm laugh. I think she must have known me, everything I was thinking, even then. Subsequent events have amply demonstrated her insight – and my lack of it. I think many of us live our lives, choose our partners - mould our feelings even – on the belief that, though they may be misleading, first impressions have a mystical claim on us bestowed on them by Fate – not to mention that it is always easier to be guided by appearances, than to attempt to divine the truth. It is a way of relieving ourselves of the burden of rational choice, it removes the responsibility for the consequences our actions - and is a pillar of prejudice. So it was with me. The evening after she had smiled and said “that would be nice”, in that easy, casual way, I felt drunk with elation. I convinced myself I was in love. Surely it had been ordained that we should be together. And we were, as it turned out. Two years ago we were married. But then things took an unexpected turn.
During those years of courtship I had become more and more perplexed. Outwardly we had a great relationship – everyone thought so, and Chris herself seemed to think so. But I had a lingering sense that she was the sun, and I a planet. One planet amongst many. Not other men, but her girlfriends. It seemed to me that she talked more intimately with them than she ever did with me. Once or twice she cut off a conversation in mid-flow, as if it were something that was not for my ears. I remember one occasion in particular. I remember it because it proved later to have special significance. We had a number of friends round for dinner, including a couple – Ellie and Robert – whom Chris had introduced me to. Apparently she had known Ellie since they were young children, but Ellie’s family had moved away before they went to secondary school. Whenever we saw them, Chris and Ellie would become engrossed in whispered conversations, punctuated by much giggling and the occasional outburst of hysterical laughter. Robert himself was uncommunicative, and barely responded to anything I said to him. He had an air of delicacy about him, even slight effeminacy, which made him difficult to approach at the best of times. Instead he would sit alone in his chair, staring into space, seemingly in a state of mild depression. Ellie would simply be chatting away to Chris and ignoring him. Whereas Chris might say something like, “You don’t mind us nattering away, do you Alex? Sorry – I haven’t had a proper girlie chat to Ellie for weeks. Have a drink – dinner will be ready in half an hour” – Ellie behaved as though Robert wasn’t even there. Very odd, I thought at the time. I wonder if they’re going to split up soon. But they didn’t – unfortunately, as it turned out.
Anyway, to continue. I think I’ve been putting off the next bit, but I’ll have to come clean. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve been fascinated by girls. No surprise there, you’re thinking. But no, it’s not as simple as that. It’s been a sort of fetish, of which Chris herself was the highest and most potent manifestation. It wasn’t about the sex, or even individual girls. It was – well, like I said before – it was to do with their appearance, their physical presence, and…their clothes! How I envied them their neat, pretty, colourful outfits, the puffy blouses, crisp little skirts, their jewellery and their makeup. How I longed to share in their games, dress as they did, feel as they must have felt, be as they were! I am ashamed to say it, but I think my early attraction to my wife owed almost as much to the image of her clad in her leotard, as to her character. It was almost that, as much as I wanted to be with her, I also wanted to be her. That would have my ultimate happiness and fulfilment.
Inevitably, the intensity of my feelings drove me to seek some form of solitary satisfaction. I was sixteen when I finally took the plunge, and ordered myself my very own little ballet outfit – yellow leotard, white tights and silver pumps, and even a pack of panties to make the fantasy complete. Fortunately, our postman always came early, before I left for school, and I made sure to be waiting near the front door at the appropriate time. I didn’t want to have to answer any difficult questions. Unfortunately they package didn’t arrive for over a week. I got a few suspicious looks from my mother, but I got away with it, and the parcel was secreted underneath my wardrobe before I left for school. Then all I had to do was to wait for Saturday, when my parents were going out for the day.
I can’t describe the sensations I experienced that first time I dressed up. I retired to my room, and, though I knew I was alone in the house, carefully closed the door and placed a chair against it. My hands were shaking as I pulled on my panties and tights, and the sensation of drawing up the slippery, stretchy leotard, and feeling it snap into place, tautly encasing my whole torso, made me shiver uncontrollably. I wasn’t aroused – at least, not right away – simply in a sort of trance, as if I had just taken hallucinogenic drugs, and they were just beginning to take hold. I had to take several deep breaths to calm myself enough to sit down and lace on my pumps. When I was ready, I stood up and opened my wardrobe door, on the back of which was a full-length mirror. I stood there for several minutes, blinking in awe at my reflection. I kept running my fingers over the shiny spandex, and down onto my tights, revelling in the textures of the materials. Of course I had spent hours staring at ballet dancers online, and now I tried to replicate their poses and exercises. I felt exhilarated. I can’t put it into words. Euphoric and totally at peace all at once.
I decided I wanted to leave my room, to feel the freedom to roam a little. I was careful to keep away from the windows, but I skipped lightly downstairs and wandered into the kitchen, then the lounge. How wonderful it would be, I thought, if only this could be normality. If I could dress like this, or even just in everyday girls’ clothes, and do all the things I do now. Then I would be happy and content.
I knew I had all day. I revelled in my new-found freedom. I flounced about the house like a ten-year-old, practised ballet exercises, danced and jumped about. I felt a yearning to run into the garden and cavort on the lawn – but I resisted it. There were children playing in one next-door garden, and Mrs Plaxfield hanging out washing on the other side. I did, however, walk about in front of the French doors, half hoping someone would notice me. It gave me a thrill of fear and excitement. I imagined Mrs Plaxfield saying, “Oh, look at Alex! What a pretty ballet outfit he has on today! I think his parents are away. I must invite him round for lunch.” Or one of the girls in the opposite garden seeing me and remarking, “Look at that boy’s lovely ballet costume! Mummy. Could I have one like that? Please?” And being terribly jealous of me.
It was not until I became used to my costume that I began to experience other feelings. It was the middle of the afternoon when I gradually became aware of stirrings of a different sort. Not physically manifested, but deep in my psyche. This should have given me pause, I suppose, but for some reason it seemed to have the opposite effect. I became less self-conscious, more indignant at the established order of things. “Why shouldn’t I?” I said to myself. And with blind abandon I threw open the French doors and stepped into the garden.
Mrs Plaxfield had disappeared. Just as well. She would have been unable to prevent herself immediately telling my mother. But Lizzy and her friend were still in the garden on the other side. I marched boldly down the garden, pretending to be fetching something from the shed. I opened the door and picked up the first thing I laid my hands on – a feather duster. Good enough. It was only as I closed the door that they noticed me. As I walked calmly back to the house, I saw out of the corner of my eyes two open-mouthed faces turn in my direction and approach the fence. I heard Lizzy say, in a tone of disbelief, “It’s Alex… Look… He’s… Mummy! Come here!”
I don’t know if her mother came out and saw me. I entered the house in as nonchalant a manner as I could, closed the doors, and collapsed, heart pounding, on the couch. I’d done it! And I was still alive. Maybe it was possible…truly to be like a girl. It was not until some time afterwards that reality came flooding back, and my cheeks burned with embarrassment and anxiety, and I started to think up explanations for my appearance, should Lizzy and her friend decide – as surely they would – to broadcast an account of the remarkable vision they had beheld. But that was much later, in the evening. For now I still felt exhilarated. I lay down on my back the couch, and allowed my hand to slide down over my belly, towards the epicentre of my arousal. A few minutes later I experienced a shattering orgasm. I actually saw stars exploding in my field of vision. And then, predictably, I fell fast asleep.
I was awoken by the sound of a key in the lock of the front door. I reacted instinctively. In an instant I was half way up the stairs, and as I reached my bedroom I heard my mother call, “Alex? Are you there?” I still wonder today if she caught a glimpse of my little satin-clad butt disappearing round the corner. She gave me a slightly puzzled smile when I came down for tea. And my hands were still shaking as I held my knife and fork, and pondered on the uncomfortable prospect of intelligence from next door reaching her ears.
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Topic: A Short Story - for SBB (Read 6363 times)
