Betty Pearl's Sissy Stories 20.1
Sissy Story Archives (older stories) => 2011-2018 Sissy Stories => Topic started by: Alana on June 10, 2017, 02:19:37 PM
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I live and work on a family farm in upstate Oregon. I'm the youngest of four. I'm pretty much a regular teenaged boy except for one thing. Being as I'm the youngest, I have to wear mostly hand-me-downs. Which wouldn't be so bad.
Except that I have three older sisters.
Dresses. Lots and lots of dresses. In fact, the only clothes I own are some overalls and a shirt and socks and underwear. And some work boots. I get to wear them very rarely, and then they go right in the wash, and it's anyone's guess when I'll ever get to wear them again. It could be a week, it could be a month. My mother even made me grow my hair long, and she styles it for me. My name is Mark but everyone calls me Marilyn, even when I'm lucky enough to be wearing my overalls.
I should mention that my father died when I was very young, and from what I heard, he never treated my mother very well. I could never get the specifics on that, no matter how much I pressed for details. It made her something of a man-hater, so that may be why she so delights in humiliating me.
And yes, she does make me go to school in a dress. Often. The boys call me Marilyn all the time. They flip up my skirt and snap my brastrap. The worst part is gym class. I have to go in there and take off my dress and my slip and my bra, girdle, and pantyhose right in front of all the other boys.
Whenever the school complains, my mother just says that the farm is not doing very well, and she can't afford to buy me new clothes, as though that were a perfectly reasonable excuse to make your son dress like a girl almost constantly. I notice there's always enough money to buy Gloria a new dress whenever she wants one, dresses which I will most likely wind up wearing eventually.
But she's quite right about the farm not doing well. It's not even our farm any more, despite the fact that it's been in my father's family for generations. We had to sell it to a man who runs an insurance firm in the next town, a Mr. Bellam. He bought it with his inheritance. We live on the farm and do all the farm work, and we get half the proceeds from the crops, which doesn't amount to much. We have no contract with him, so he could throw us off the farm at any time and get someone else to do the work, which he always seems to be reminding us.
"Mom!" I said, one Saturday morning in August. "Where are my overalls?"
"In the wash. Put on that denim dress of Gloria's."
"Aw, Mom, not another dress!"
"You heard me. And put on some pantyhose. I don't want you freezing to death."
I got dressed, and she said, "Get your make-up on. You might as well look pretty."
"To do farm work?"
"Yes! And get your sister's high heels on. No daughter of mine is wearing work boots with a dress."
"I'm not your daughter. And I can't do farm work in high heels."
"Your sisters don't have any problem with it."
"Why are you always trying to humiliate me?"
"Oh, so it's humiliating, being a girl, is it? How is that?"
I could see I wasn't going to win this argument, so I shut up.
I went out to do some work, and I'd barely gotten done with feeding the chickens when a voice startled me.
"Excuse me, miss? Are you one of the Jones sisters? I don't think I recognize you."
I turned and found myself face to face with Mr. Bellam! And me in a dress! He'd only seen me once before, and I was lucky enough to be wearing overalls then.
"Y-yes," I stammered, in a voice which I hoped sounded like a girl.
"I thought I'd met all of you. Which one are you?"
I was so nervous, I didn't know what to do with my hands. I touched my hair. He was smiling, so I smiled back.
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"M-Marilyn."
I just couldn't stand to have one more person laugh at me, today. If he wanted to think I was a girl, so be it.
A breeze floated by, and by reflex I reached down to hold my skirt in place.
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There was no need. This denim dress wouldn't be fluttering in the wind.
"I came to ask your mother something. She said something about one of her kids getting high marks in a secretarial course. Suzanne, that's my secretary, Suzanne has a family emergency and needs a week off. I was going to get a temp, but instead I thought I'd come here and offer the job to one of you. You don't happen to know who she meant, do you?"
It was me. Well, they made me do most of the paperwork on the farm, and secretarial skills come in handy. I was about to admit it was me, but I wasn't quite sure it was a good idea.
"I don't know," I said.
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"Oh, Marilyn, is so modest! She'd be glad to help you out, Mr. Bellam. You couldn't ask for a better secretary."
Mom's voice startled me. I turned around and looked at her, angrily. Then I turned back to Mr. Bellam.
"I'm sure I'm needed here on the farm."
"Oh, we can do without you for a week, Marilyn," she said sweetly. "And you can get some work done when you get home, before bed. It will be fine."
"Well, I don't want to force her into anything. I'll pay two hundred dollars a day."
"Two hundred a day!" I said.
"Let me know. If you'll excuse me, I have to get back to the office."
He politely turned down her offer of a cold drink, got in his car, and left.
"Mom! You can't make me do this!"
"Sure I can. We could use the money."
"But he thinks I'm a girl!"
"No one told you to say your name is Marilyn. If you want to tell him you're a boy, go ahead. But you're still going to work in a dress and high heels. You can't wear overalls to the office."
"Can I at least use some of the money to buy some boy clothes for me?"
"We'll see."
That meant no, of course.
When Gloria was told I'd be wearing her dresses to work as a secretary, she threw back her head and laughed.
"Oh, that's too much!" she said. "He really thinks you're a girl? He'll be slapping your ass and slipping his hand up your skirt all day long! I wish I could be there to see it!"
I felt sick.
Monday morning, Gloria picked out a very tight blue floral dress for me to wear. Her dresses were quite grown-up looking. Well, she was a few years older.
I drove out to the insurance office in our old Buick. In this town, no one knew I was a boy. When I entered the office building I realized I'd be the only woman there. Well, the only one who LOOKED like a woman, anyway. The men all noticed me, in fact I don't think they took their eyes off me until I was out of sight in Mr. Bellam's private office.
"Welcome, Marilyn. That's a very lovely dress you're wearing."
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"Thank you, sir."
"Please, call me George. I notice it's a little tight. I hope it's not going to be too tight for you to work in."
"Well, if it is, it's too late now. I don't plan on taking it off, if that's what you're suggesting."
He laughed condescendingly, as grown-ups do.
He showed me my desk, and I got right to work typing and filing. One of my very important duties was to go get coffee for my lord and master, because he couldn't possibly be bothered to do that himself. He didn't have a coffee cup. He preferred to drink if from a Styrofoam cup, which I thought was a little strange, but who am I, a boy in a dress, to be calling someone else strange? So several times a day I had to leave his office and go to the coffee room on the other side of the building and bring him back a cup of coffee.
I began to think it was just so the men could get a look at me as often as possible. Whenever I headed for the coffee room, all conversation would cease. The first time I didn't dare glance in their direction. I just knew every eye was on me, and it made me tense.
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The next time, I thought to myself, why shouldn't I look at them? If they're allowed to stare at me, I can certainly look at them. So I did.
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You never saw more heads snap back into place in your life! I'd caught them staring at my legs, and they were embarrassed and afraid to look in my direction.
I figured they'd have to stop staring, eventually. Yes, I'm wearing a dress, I have legs, I'm a girl.
Except I wasn't, but they didn't need to know that.
The third time going for coffee, I was accompanied by the familiar silence, so I knew they were staring. Hadn't they ever seen a girl in a tight dress before? Well, there was nothing I could do about it, so I might as well try and have some fun. I didn't look in their direction until I was almost at the coffee room, then I turned and gave them a little wave.
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They gasped! Like, she knows! She knows! Some of them even gave out a little nervous laugh.
The fourth and last time I went for coffee that day, I really thought they'd had enough of my legs, but I guess not. So I thought, what if I just went for the biggest reaction I could get?
I bent my knees and put my hands behind my head.
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Cheers and applause! And two guys even whistled!
I know I should've been insulted, and maybe I would've been if I were a real girl, but I couldn't help it. I loved it! These men not only thought I was a girl, they thought I was an attractive girl! And no one else, anywhere, had ever thought I was attractive. Certainly no girl ever thought so. And all the boys in school know I'm a boy. If one of them thinks I'm attractive, he's definitely been keeping it to himself. Getting this kind of reaction was intoxicating! I wondered if it would be like this all week.
I was glad that was the last time I'd be going for coffee that day, because there was no way I could top that.
The day continued pleasantly enough, until Mr. Bellam uttered the three frightening, dramatic words every rookie secretary dreads to hear: Take a letter.
Shorthand! That mysterious, noble art which separates the boys from the secretaries. Typing and filling are all well and good, but you're not a real secretary until you can take shorthand.
At this point I cannot do better than to quote Mr. Charles dic-kens:
I bought an approved scheme of the noble art and mystery of stenography (which cost me ten and sixpence); and plunged into a sea of perplexity that brought me, in a few weeks, to the confines of distraction. The changes that were rung upon dots, which in such a position meant such a thing, and in such another position something else, entirely different; the wonderful vagaries that were played by circles; the unaccountable consequences that resulted from marks like flies' legs; the tremendous effects of a curve in a wrong place; not only troubled my waking hours, but reappeared before me in my sleep. When I had groped my way, blindly, through these difficulties, and had mastered the alphabet, which was an Egyptian Temple in itself, there then appeared a procession of new horrors, called arbitrary characters; the most despotic characters I have ever known; who insisted, for instance, that a thing like the beginning of a cobweb, meant expectation, and that a pen-and-ink sky-rocket, stood for disadvantageous. When I had fixed these wretches in my mind, I found that they had driven everything else out of it; then, beginning again, I forgot them; while I was picking them up, I dropped the other fragments of the system; in short, it was almost heart-breaking.
That should give you a small idea of how difficult shorthand is.
I brought in my steno pad and pen, sat down ( not bothering to tuck my skirt beneath my buttocks, because it wasn't necessary in that tight dress ), put on my glasses, crossed my legs, and prepared to take a letter.
And Mr. Bellam took no mercy on me, as he rattled off his words as fast as he could go, composing a letter to the Oregon Iron Ore Corporation regarding a disputed claim they were negotiating. I concentrated as hard as I could. I was keeping up!
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"...and furthermore, you should be advised that, before the beginning of next year, that Marilyn has the most beautiful legs I've ever seen in my life..."
I looked up and smiled at him. He was smiling back at me.
"Mr. Bellam---George---I really don't think the Oregon Iron Ore Corporation needs to hear about my beautiful legs, do you?"
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"I'm sorry," he said. "My mind wandered."
"Let's hope it doesn't wander up my skirt, George."
The next morning, Gloria chose for me a cute pale blue dress with a pleated skirt. I was relieved to be wearing a dress that wasn't so tight, though I'm sure if I'd asked her for something not so tight she would've reached into her closet and picked out something even tighter.
Mr. Bellam greeted me by saying, "Marilyn, you look adorable in that cute little dress!"
"Thank you, sir. George. For a man, you seem awfully obsessed with which dress I wear. Or is it me you're obsessed with?"
"Now, now. Let's not make inappropriate remarks."
"Right. Because saying I have beautiful legs, that's not inappropriate at all."
"Well. It's not inaccurate."
He smiled, and I smiled back.
I must admit, I loved that dress! I loved feeling the skirt brush against my hands as I walked down the hall to get him coffee.
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And if you think wearing a dress with a slightly longer, fuller skirt was going to stop the men from staring at my legs, then you don't know men.
It was great not to be wearing such a tight dress, and to be able to take a full stride instead of the smaller steps I'd taken the day before. But I walked a little too fast, and I was careless. I tripped and fell flat on the floor. You can trip over just about anything in high heels if you're not careful.
I looked at what had tripped me up. Just an extension card affixed to the carpet with duct tape. I felt so embarrassed. It wasn't as though I had no experience walking in heels.
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I expected them all to laugh at me. That's what they would've done at my high school. I looked at them all and tried to smile, tried to make it look like I was in on the joke.
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Of all the things it's awkward to do in a dress and high heels, getting up off the floor is just about at the top of the list. I propped myself up on my hands and pulled my legs toward me, ready to get up.
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But they weren't laughing, and in fact about half a dozen men were running towards me with hands extended, ready to help me up. So I leaned back and relaxed. Why should I deny them the privilege of helping out a pretty girl in a cute dress?
I took the hand of the man nearest me. He looked to be the strongest. He lifted me gracefully to my feet.
"Are you all right?" he asked, as though I were a particularly fragile piece of fine china.
"I think so," I said. "Is my dress OK?" I straightened my skirt.
Someone else took me by the elbow to the break room.
"Do my nylons look all right? My sister will kill me if I ruin her pantyhose."
"Have a seat," someone said.
I looked at the high stool they wanted me to sit on. Oh, so they were going to give my nylons a full examination, were they? Well, wasn't that was kind of them?
I hopped up onto the stool.
"Well? Do I look OK?"
"You look beautiful."
"Now, now. Don't talk that way. You know I'm only seventeen."
"You're the one who wanted us to look at your nylons."
I touched my hair and crossed my legs. I smiled at them.
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I laughed. "You guys are shameless!" I said. "Haven't you ever seen a girl's legs before? Didn't Suzanne have legs?"
Suzanne, if you'll remember, was the secretary I was temporarily replacing.
"Not as beautiful as yours."
It was ridiculous, these middle-aged men, standing around staring at a boy's legs. A boy in pantyhose and high heels. And a pretty dress.
What was really pathetic was that I was loving all the attention.
"Well, Mr. Bellam will be screaming for his coffee. I'd better get back. Help me down?"
The strong fellow took me by the waist and lifted me off the chair, and gently let me down until my high heels touched the floor. He held on to my waist just a little longer than necessary. I smiled at him, and looked into his eyes.
"Thank you," I said.
Finally he let me go. I back away from him, then I filled a Styrofoam coffee cup for Mr. Bellam.
"Bye, guys," I said, and smiled.
"Bye," they all said.
I turned and left. I knew they were watching me leave.
The next day Gloria chose for me a colorful silky dress with a long skirt. I put it on. It felt very sexy to wear.
And I wondered if my long skirt would stop the men from staring at me as I went for coffee, since they couldn't see much of my legs. And I wondered if I would hate that. I predicted yes, for both questions.
And I was right. When I went for coffee, I attracted no attention at all. I looked at them, and not a one of them were looking back at me. And I noticed later on, some of them were rather sullen towards me, as though I'd offended them somehow.
Near the end of the day, Mr. Bellam wanted to talk to me. With a great show of reluctance, he said, "Marilyn, I like to talk to you about your dress."
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"My dress? What's wrong with my dress?" I held my voluminous skirt in my hands and looked at it.
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"Your skirt is much too long for office work."
I was raised to treat adults with respect, but this just pissed me off.
"What the hell does the length of my skirt have to do with office work?"
"It might get caught in the doorway or the filing cabinet. Stuff like that."
"Oh, why don't you just tell me the truth about why you want me in a short skirt!"
He sighed.
"Marilyn, these men work very hard at a very boring job. Getting to look at your legs every day is just a little ray of sunshine in their lives. You're a very attractive girl, Marilyn, I'm sure you know that. In a dress like that, you might as well be wearing pants."
"So basically I'm just a pair of legs to them! That's all I am."
"Marilyn, I don't think that about you. I think you're very interesting and very intelligent, and I don't mean just for a teenager. I find you very interesting to talk to."
"You do?"
"Certainly. Look, you wear whatever dress you want. Really. Even wear pants if you want. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that to you."
"Well, actually, my sister picks out which dress I wear every day. I have to wear a lot of hand-me-downs. She's a few years older."
"Yes, I thought you dressed very grown-up for a teenager."
"Thank you! Maybe you should take over the job of deciding what I wear every day. You seem to be obsessed with what I wear."
"Like I said, wear what you want."
I asked for Suzanne's number, so I could talk to her about some things. That evening, as soon as I could get some privacy, I called her up.
"Hello?"
"Hello, is this Suzanne? Could I talk to you? I don't want to disturb you, if you're in the middle of something."
"Who is this?"
"My name is Marilyn. I'm taking over for you, for the week."
"You sound like just a kid."
"I'm seventeen, but I'm fully trained."
"What can I do for you? Finding everything OK?"
"I just wanted to ask you about the guys in the office."
"Uh-oh. What've they done?"
"I wanted to find out if they stare at you the way they stare at me."
She laughed.
"Don't tell me. Your legs. Does it make you feel uncomfortable?"
"Well, I'm just not used to it, is all. Do they stare at your legs?"
"Not as much as they used to. But my legs aren't what they used to be. If they still stare at me they must be going crazy over you, if you're as young as you sound."
"I was told today, in no uncertain terms, that my skirt was too long."
"Yeah, I've gotten that speech. So tell me, do you like it? The staring?"
"Do you?"
"I'll admit it if you do."
"OK. Fine. I like it. I know I should feel insulted, but I like it."
"Oh, don't let anyone else tell you what to feel. It's not like they're a bunch of louts playing grab-ass all day. They're sweet guys."
"They are, aren't they?"
"So what if they stare? They can't help themselves, poor dears. You're only there for a week. Give 'em what they want. Is that what you wanted to ask me?"
"More or less."
"Just wanted permission to feel the way most women feel but know we're not supposed to, eh?"
"I guess."
"Well, if there's nothing else---"
"Well, just one thing. How'd you feel when Mr. Bellam said your skirt was too long? What'd you do?"
"Oh, I got mad and told him he was treating me like a piece of meat, and he said he didn't see me that way and thought I was very intelligent, and then he got terribly contrite and told me I could wear whatever I wanted. And I went home and moved all my longer dresses to the back of the closet and wore short skirts to work after that. So the men got what they wanted. And I'm guessing that's exactly what you're going to do. Am I right?"
"Yes. Probably. We're just pushovers, aren't we? The men smile at us and leer at our legs and we do whatever they want."
"Yeah, but don't let them know that. Good-bye, Marilyn. Good luck."
I said good-bye and hung up.
The next day I waited to see which dress Gloria was going to choose for me. I wasn't going to interfere. She chose an astonishingly beautiful silk dress in vibrant colors, which I was meant to wear with a belt. It wasn't extremely short, but short enough. I knew the guys would be back to staring at my legs.
Mr. Bellam called me in for some dictation. I waited for him to make some more crass comments about my legs, but he didn't mention them. So when I got up and pushed the chair back into the corner, I said, "Well, George, I hope my pretty dress meets all the proper criteria for shortness."
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He smiled, because he could see I was just kidding around.
"Of course it does," he said.
"Are you sure? We can get out a ruler and measure my skirt, if you'd like."
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"That won't be necessary."
I stepped forward a little bit and faced him.
"I wouldn't want you to feel you weren't getting your money's worth out of my legs. Are you sure? I can always lift my skirt for you, if you'd like."
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"Yes, I'd think you'd better do that, Marilyn."
"Do what?"
"Lift your skirt. So I can see your legs better."
"I don't think my mother would be too pleased at that. That wouldn't be very ladylike."
Yeah, what was under my skirt wasn't very ladylike, I'll say that.
I turned to go.
"I'm leaving, now," I said. "Want to watch?"
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I wish I'd known at the time that I was playing with fire, but I didn't have much experience with that kind of situation.
The next day, Gloria tried to pick out another long dress for me, and I reached past her into the closet and grabbed her shortest, lowest cut dress. She stared at me quizzically. It was the first time I'd ever cared which dress I wore.
"My last day," I said. "Might as well give 'em a treat."
She laughed derisively.
"I knew it! You like it, you little pervert! Wait 'til I tell Mom! You can't ever complain about wearing dresses again!"
It'd felt so good being appreciated by all those lascivious guys at work, I'd forgotten what it was like to be made fun of by my family. It reminded me of how things were.
I walked into the office in my short dress, and the first thing that happened was that a guy saw me and dropped a bunch of papers on the floor. I smiled at him. I rushed over to help him pick up the papers, but he got it taken care of before I got there. Just as well. Bending over in that tiny little dress might've caused someone's head to explode.
They were giving a little party for me on my last day. Any excuse for a party would do for those guys. They bought a cake that said "We'll Miss You!", but the cake wasn't much of a surprise to me, because it was my job to order it and to go pick it up. I think the guys went to the trouble of putting out the paper plates and plastic forks themselves, though.
The party was in the break room. And there was the high stool I was expected to sit on, again. I was to be on display, me and my legs, and boy was I ever wearing the right dress for it. I finally realized what that stool reminded me of. I used to watch Fox News, and they always went out of their way to show off the lovely legs of all the women. They'd seat them in a chair with no desk anywhere near, nothing to block the view of those pretty legs. So I was meant to be on display like I was on Fox News. I guess the rotating platform hadn't arrived, yet.
I put one hand on the stool and said, "I couldn't possibly get up on this by myself. I need one of you strong men to help me up."
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The same strong man who'd helped me before stepped forward. He grasped me by the waist once again, lifted me up and gently placed me on the stool, so as not to damage my tender little rear end.
I stared at them all, and let them feast their eyes on my legs. I scratched my shoulder and wondered what was supposed to happen next.
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"Speech! Speech!" I heard.
I wasn't sure what to say. I crossed my legs, and even that had an audible effect. I swear I heard a fellow in the crowd say, "Mmmmmmm" as though he was enjoying a hot fudge sundae.
"Well---hello fellas," I said.
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"We'll miss you!" said someone.
"I know. I can read."
That got a mild laugh, and I continued.
"Well, I just want to say that I couldn't ask for a sweeter bunch of guys to work for, and it's been great fun being here. Secretarial work is a lot easier than farm work, and it's not so hard on my pantyhose. How do you like my dress?"
Cheers and whistles.
"Well, that's good. I was told in no uncertain terms on Wednesday that my skirt was too long. Well, I hope I've made up for it with this dress. I certainly wouldn't want to leave here today feeling that you haven't gotten to see enough of my legs. But just in case---"
I slid my skirt back enticingly. More cheers and whistles.
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Mr. Bellam took over and went on about how they'd miss me, and how I was more than just an attractive, leggy girl, I was a good worker and a valued member of the team, and all that. They cut the cake and brought me a piece. They wouldn't let me off the stool. Men crowded around me and talked to me until the party was over.
It's funny; I was always a shy, nervous kid, and in the office I was a different sort of person, smiling and chatting and not feeling shy at all. If you treat a person differently, it changes him. Or her.
Back in the office, Mr. Bellam said he wanted to talk to me.
"Marilyn, I want to take you to dinner tomorrow night. Just to say thanks for all your hard work."
"What! No! We can't do that! Are you crazy? I'm seventeen! We can't date!"
"What date? This is just two people having dinner, that's all. I'll pick you up at six o'clock tomorrow evening. Wear something sexy."
"Something sexy. But it's not a date? My Mom is not going for this."
"You leave her to me."
And there was the warning again, the constant reminder that he exerted considerable power over us.
I suppose you think I deserved it, being in this predicament, because of all the flirting I'd been doing at the office. All I can say is that a little innocent flirting at work is quite different from winding up trapped in a car and trapped in a dress, with a man twice your age who clearly has some things on his mind that are not so innocent.
Before I left, Mom called to ask me to pick up a gallon of milk on the way home. I wish I'd been thinking. I should've gone to a store near the office where no one knew me. Instead I waited until I got back, and went to a grocery store near the farm.
There were two boys from my high school there. And there I was in my tiny little dress.
"Hi, Marilyn!" said one of them, saying the name like an insult. "Nice dress, Marilyn! Nice legs! Are you wearing a tampon?"
"Leave me alone!" I said. He flipped my skirt up, but in that minidress it hardly seemed to matter. After receiving the appreciation of all those men in the office, this was another little reminder of what my life was really like.
When I got home and put the milk in the refrigerator, I said to my mother, "Mom, tomorrow night Mr. Bellam is coming over. You have to tell him I'm sick!"
"Why?"
"He wants to take me to dinner!"
"Well, that's fine."
"Mom, do you really think he just wants to eat with me? He wants to kiss me and touch me, and who knows what else!"
"Well, I see someone thinks a lot of herself. Marilyn, that man controls our future. If he says you're having dinner with him, you're having dinner with him. You can wear Gloria's aqua dress with the elastic waist."
"That short dress! That's even shorter than the dress I've got on!"
"Which I understand you chose yourself."
"It was the last day! Mom, if I wear that dress, he's gonna think---I don't even want to say what he's gonna think!"
"You heard me. You'll wear the dress and have dinner with him, and that's final!"
The night of the date, my sisters and my Mom spent a great deal of time making me look pretty. They barely finished in time when Mr. Bellam arrived.
I looked down at myself in the cute little aqua dress I was wearing. I felt sick.
"Mom, I'm not doing this."
"Oh, you're doing this. You'll have dinner with him, you'll smile at him, you'll laugh at his stupid jokes, you'll be a cute little girly girl and do whatever it takes to make him happy so her doesn't throw us off the farm. You hear me?"
"What if he gets my dress off? You think he's going to be happy with what he finds in my panties?"
"Well, then you'll just have to make sure he doesn't get your dress off, won't you?"
"Mom, I swear, when I turn eighteen I'm running away from home. Just try and run the farm without me."
"OK, if that happens we'll deal with it then. Until then, get out there and smile, Marilyn!"
I went out to meet Mr. Bellam. His gaze roamed all over my body. He just seemed to be devouring me with his eyes. I guess there was no point in asking if he liked my dress.
"I brought you a little something," he said.
I took the flowers from his hand. I looked at them, holding them close to my dress.
My sisters were nearly choking themselves trying not to laugh.
"Thank you, George. Thank you for thinking of me. Nobody else ever thinks of doing anything for me. They just want to see how much work they can get out of me, like I'm a beast of burden. They never give me any kind of a treat, or even think about my feelings. It's like they live to make me miserable. But I appreciate that you took the time to give me these flowers."
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My mother cleared her throat abruptly.
"Have her back by nine," she said.
Dinner was uncomfortable. I was terribly nervous. We sat in a booth, only Mr. Bellam didn't sit across from me, but right next to me, incredibly close. The conversation was mostly him paying me compliments.
"That's a beautiful dress."
"Thank you," I said.
He put his hand on my thigh and started to slide my skirt back.
"Please don't do that," I said.
"Don't be coy. Any girl who wears a dress like that has no business being coy."
"You said to wear something sexy."
"Miss, could we have two martinis with dinner?"
The waitress went away to fill the order.
"Two? I can't drink! I'm seventeen!"
"Oh, don't worry about it. No one cares in this place."
"Please, I can't get drunk. What will my mother say?"
"You leave your mother to me."
The martinis arrived. I tried to protest, but he insisted. And then there were more martinis. More and more. By the time we left, I was so tipsy he had to help me to the car. He'd consumed as much alcohol as I had, but it didn't seem to affect him at all.
I didn't pay much attention to where we were going, until I saw that he was pulling up before a house.
"Where are we, George?"
"I want to show you my place."
"No! You---you can't! I can hardly walk! You---you said---something----you said---getting me---getting me back---by nine! It's after---that!"
"Come on. No arguments, now. Be a good girl."
He opened my door and pulled me up by the elbow. I reached for my purse, but I wound up grabbing the flower he'd given me, instead. He walked me to the door, me tripping and stumbling all the way.
We got inside, and he went over to turn on the lights.
I tried to take a step without his help. And the floor came up to meet me.
I'd fallen on my butt twice in the same week! Damn high heels, any way!
I looked at him. He was smiling down at me. Everything was swimming before my eyes.
"Looks like---looks like---I think---I think---I think---someone tripped---I think. I think---that's what happened."
-
"I think you may be right."
I eyed him steadily.
"You going---you going---to just---stare at me---all night?"
"You look so beautiful and sexy, I don't see how I can stop."
-
"Are you---aren't you---be a gennleman---and---help a girl up?"
"I like you right where you are."
"OK. Fine. I can get up. I can get up. I can get up. By myself. I can. If I can just---find my legs. Seem to have---misplaced 'em. Oh, there they are. Those things---coming out---of my skirt. Those things---that are---in pantyhose. Wearing pantyhose. Because---you don't---wear pantyhose---on your arms. Right? So---must be---my legs. OK. Getting up, now."
-
I propped myself up on my hands and got ready to stumble to my feet.
-
"Don't bother," he said. "Stay where you are. I'll come to you."
He dropped to his knees and laid his body close to mine. I tried to squirm away from him, but he had me against a wall. He put his arm around my waist and pulled me closer. He tried to kiss me.
And that was when I threw up right in his face!
And he reacted about as you'd expect. A mixture of shock, disgust, and anger. He squinted and tried to wipe some vomit out of his eyes.
I didn't say anything. I stumbled to my feet and lunged for the door. I took a quick look at my dress. There weren't any stains.
When I got outside, I allowed myself a little smile. He deserved it. Big time.
He didn't try to chase me or call out after me.
I staggered to a gas station and asked if I could use the phone. They acted like they'd never seen a person without a cell phone before. I called my mother. While I was waiting for her I managed to sober up at least a little bit. But I was still staggering out to the car when she arrived.
"Are you drunk?" she asked, in an accusatory tone.
"He kept plying me with martinis. There was nothing I could do."
"You could say no."
"Oh, NOW I can say no!"
I explained what had happened. When I got to the end of the story, she laughed and started slapping the steering wheel with her hand.
"Right in his face!" she exclaimed.
"Mom, why aren't you angry at him! He plied me with alcohol, he got me drunk, and it's all just a big joke to you! How can you pimp me out this way? You wouldn't do that to my sisters!"
"That's different. You can't get pregnant."
"I could've gotten beat up if he'd seen what I look like without this dress on!"
"Listen, one day you might have a girl in the same position that you were just in. Except that she'll be the one wearing the dress. And you'll know not to try to take advantage of her, like he did."
For some reason, this just caused me to start crying. I cried uncontrollably. She said nothing. She just waited.
"Mom," I said, "tell me the truth! Tell me why you treat me like this! It's not because you can't afford to get boy clothes for me. That's bullshit!"
"You watch your mouth, young lady."
"I'm not a lady! I'm a boy! Why do you make me dress like a girl? You can't get even with Dad by making me wear dresses! Dad is gone!"
She was quiet for more than two minutes. In works of fiction, the author says that someone was quiet for a minute, and he just doesn't seem to have any idea how incredibly long a minute really is. Well, this isn't a work of fiction, this is a true story, and I was there, and I know it was at least two minutes before she said anything.
"Do you remember the first time I made you wear a dress? You were chasing your sisters all over the house with a super-soaker squirt gun. They were just running away helplessly and screaming. And I thought, you're twice his size! Take the gun away from him and sit on him! And I just knew we'd have another male terrorizing the household the way your father used to do."
"For that you made me wear dresses for eleven years? That's crazy!"
"It worked, didn't it?"
"If by 'worked' you mean got me bullied every day of my life and made it impossible for me to ever date a girl, then yeah, it worked."
"No one ever said you couldn't date girls."
"Oh come on, Mom! Look at me! What girl is going to date me? What are we going to do on a date? Go dress shopping?"
"You're an A student. You didn't bother trying to be cool. You couldn't be cool in a pretty dress. You never got in fights because you were afraid you'd rip your skirt."
I started crying again. She drove on silently.
Finally she said, "You promise to treat your sisters right? You promise you'll never treat any girl the way Mr. Bellam treated you? If you do, you'll be back in a cute little dress so fast it will make your head spin."
"What do you mean, back in a dress? What are you saying?"
"I'm saying, you're free. You can be a boy. I'll buy you some boy clothes tomorrow."
I couldn't believe my ears!
"Really? No more dresses? No more bras, or girdles, or pantyhose? No more high heels?"
"Mr. Bellam is going to keep trying to have his way with you. The best thing to do is make Marilyn disappear."
"What about my hair?"
"We'll get it cut tomorrow."
She was silent for a little while. Then she said, "Are you sure about this? You're so pretty in a dress. Prettier than all your sisters."
"Please don't say that. Please don't take it back. I'm begging you."
"Are you going to run away?"
"If you'll just let me be a boy, I swear, I'll stay on the farm forever."
When we got home, we told my sisters the news. I didn't even wait to hear their reactions. I was too eager to tear off my dress and my lingerie and my high heels, and wash off all my make-up.
The next morning, my overalls and all the rest of my meager boy clothes were waiting for me. I got up and got dressed. Dressed as a boy!
I heard Mr. Bellam out in the living room, wanting to talk to Marilyn.
"Marilyn has gone to live with her aunt," said my Mom. "We thought it was best."
I heard them arguing. I realized I couldn't let him see me with my hair the way it was. So I sneaked into the bathroom and got out the electric razor, and plugged it in.
I didn't hesitate. I shaved myself bald.
When I came out, my mother didn't even react to my bald head, probably because she'd hear the razor going.
I'd missed most of the argument. She was saying, "You just try it and I'll have the law on you for contributing to the delinquency of a minor."
"Hi, Mom. Who's this?" I asked. "Oh, I remember. I met you once before. Mr. Bellam."
We shook hands. He didn't recognize me and had no interest in me at all. I walked past him and went out to the barn and got to work.
That year we had our best year ever. We brought in a bumper crop and paid a lot of our outstanding bills.
Quite frankly, I think that the problem all along was that I couldn't do a decent day's work in a dress and high heels.
THE END