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.