Part 1
By Peta Wilson
Subscribers can catch up with Part 1|Part 2|Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
"Why don't you go as a girl?"
He looks up at his older sister and screws up his face.
"Don't be mad."
"Why not? You need to chose something and this way you won't need to hire a costume. And you'd look great."
He examines her, sitting opposite him, knees under her on the sofa, long legs exposed up to here by the short black skirt and he thinks, again, if she wasn't his sister he might well be in love with her. He might be in love with her anyway.
"Why?" he asked, his eyebrows raised.
"Don't be coy. You know. You're slim and you're beautiful." She grins. "You already look like me. I know lots of boys who wear dresses and who don't look half as good as you would."
"They're drag queens," he says, sneeringly.
"Well? So what? You could go as a drag queen."
"I don't want to look like a drag queen," he says, but something in his voice suggests he is not totally averse to the idea.
"Go as someone famous then. A movie star. A singer."
"I don't want to look like a joke."
"You wouldn't. In fact you could be so real people would be convinced you were a girl. The problem then would be you wouldn't look like you were in a costume. You'd just look normal. I know. Go as a super model. You could be totally glamorous and dazzling and be, um, Christy Turlington. You have her colouring."
He is wide-eyed. "You think I could look like Christy Turlington?"
"Sure. Enough for a costume party anyway. I think it would be a hoot. It would be enough for a girl to go as someone like Christy Turlington but for a boy...what a knockout. But it doesn't matter of it's Christy or not, just any super model."
He thinks the idea of him looking like Christy Turlington - or any of the other super models - is incredible, preposterous. He is in love with the super models too. He thinks his sister looks like a super model. She's not. She's just a junior soap actress. But she is beautiful and sexy and, now, always glamorous. He knows he has a crush on his sister even if he isn't, actually, in love with her. She is his masturbatory fantasy. He likes, secretly, to watch her dress and undress. He thinks she might know this because she never closes her door properly. The idea of being able to look like her, let alone Christy Turlington, is...intriguing.
He unwraps his lithe body from the chair and stands and stretches.
"I can't think of anything else to wear."
"I'll help you," she says. "We'll have a try out tomorrow if you like."
In bed, he turns out the light and he
wonders, God could I look like her?
In the morning he wakes late. It is already 9.30 by his bedside clock. He staggers out of bed and goes down to the small kitchen in his pajamas. His sister is sitting in the living room, watching television, She is wearing tight fitting jeans and a white mid-riff, halter top and he knows she is not wearing a bra because she practically never does at home. She hears him and turns and gazes at him across the breakfast bar. Her mane of dark blonde hair tumbles around her shoulders. She is already perfectly made-up. He thinks she lives her role as the vamp. He sighs almost audibly.
"Hi," she smiles.
"Hi," he responds. "Want something?"
"No. I've already had coffee. There's some hot if you want it. Eat and then we'll go and see what sort of a girl we can make of you."
He pours muesli and milk into a bowl and he realizes that his hand is shaking, just a tiny bit. When he is finished she turns off the TV.
"Take a shower. Wash your hair and leave it a bit wet."
In her bedroom, her inner sanctum, he can smell her, her perfume, somehow her presence. He is still in his pajamas, She is rummaging around in a drawer. She comes up with some tiny black thing.
"Go into your room and put these on. Get decent and then come back. They're tight. Tuck yourself down into them."
When he does so he thinks he already look girlish because he has disappeared into the tiny triangle of black lycra. Back in her room he sees things laid out on the bed in readiness and he quakes. Filmy, sheer black pantyhose, a black lace bra, a black mini slip, black high heels courts, a black, sleeveless dress so small it does not look as if it would fit a ten year old.
His sister smiles at him. "You
ready for this?"
He swallows. "I guess so."
She helps him into pantyhose, a bra, which she pads with some foam rubber falsies she used to wear, she says, when she was thirteen, the slip.
"Try these," she says, and he steps into the high heels and feels unsteady and precarious.
"You'll get used to them," she says with a grin. "Come over here."
He tries to walk but is awkward and she takes his hand.
"Just walk around me in a circle for a minute. Keep your toes a bit pointed and don't be afraid to put your weight on the heels. They won't break."
He walks around her holding her fingers tips and is reminded of a princess at a medieval dance and he giggles.
"What's funny?"
"Nothing."
She leads him to her dressing table and sits him with his back to the mirror and she selects certain hair rollers from her bin and parts and rolls his hair and attaches the rollers. She is taking her time. He find he is enjoying the touching, the pampering. When this is done she begins to make up his face and he knows what she is using because he has watched her use these items many times.
"Why am I dressed like this if you have to do all this other stuff first?"
"Because it's the way I do it I suppose. And because it will get you in the mood."
She spends a lot of time on his eyes, as indeed she does with her own. He thinks of an artist with a canvas and palette and he is the canvas. Occasionally she stands back and surveys her handiwork.
"You look more like Mum used to look than me, I think. You have her wide nose."
"Do I?"
"You remember what she looked like?"
He tries to picture his dead mother's face and he can't.
"No."
She died when he was nine. There is a gulf between nine and fifteen which he cannot bridge.
She completes the decoration of his face and turns to his hair, releasing the rollers so that his thick, dark blonde hair falls in ringlets and she brushes and combs the locks into soft waves which frame his face just so. She clips a pair of gold earrings to his ears and fits a thin gold chain around his neck and stands him up and helps him into the black dress which is made of clinging, wool jersey and ends about ten inches above his knees.
"You look sensational," she says and he is aware that there is genuine pride in her voice.
At the mirror he can see signs of his sister and, perhaps, a vague recognition of a long lost mother. What he can't see is Christy Turlington, although he recognizes this is only a pretend. And he can't see himself either, the boy with whom he has become so familiar over the past fifteen years. The creature in the mirror is one of those with whom he is regularly falling in love; one of those whose pictures he takes to the bathroom; one of the young beauties from TV programs like "Neighbors" and "Home and Away", his sister's fellow juvenile actors. The girl in the mirror is alluring and sexy.
He also knows straight way he cannot go to the cast end of season fancy dress party dressed like this.
His skin is hot, his heart is thumping. He turns to his sister, standing beside him, smiling.
"How do I take this dress of?"
ÒTake it off. You've only just put it on. Don't
you..."
He kicks off the shoes.
"No. Take it off, please."
He begins to struggle with the dress.
"No don't. You'll tear it."
She opens the rear zipper and he peels it and feverishly removes the slip, the pantyhose, the bra. He sits at the dressing table and ties his hair back and dips his fingers into a jar of cleansing cream and begins to remove the makeup. His sister stands watching, frowning and puzzled.
"What's wrong?"
ÒNothing. I just can't wear...that stuff."
He uses tissue after tissue and finally his own face stares back at him from the mirror. Fran sits on the bed watching. He gets up from the mirror and heads for the door.
"Russell...?"
But he does not pause and goes to his
room and closes the door behind him.
He has been lying on his bed in a semi-fetal position, worrying, for, maybe, an hour, when there is a knock on his door. He ignores it but the knock comes again.
"What?"
The door opens and Fran comes in and sits on the soft bed by his side. She remains silent for a moment, She reaches out her hand and brushes the back of her knuckles gently against his cheek.
"What's wrong? What happened?"
He avoids her eyes.
"Nothing."
"Yes it did. What is it?" Her voice is soft, gentle, concerned.
"I looked silly."
"You did not. You looked beautiful."
"I don't want to dress as a girl."
"Okay. It was just a suggestion."
She leans across him and places a very soft kiss on his cheek. He breathes deeply of her perfume. Her proximity is disturbing.
"Do you still want to come? We can find something else I guess."
She is still leaning over him and her breasts, nipples prominent, hanging in the halter top, are not more than a foot from his face. He is still wearing the tiny black lycra panties she gave him earlier. He turns his head into the pillow and groans.
"Russell! What is it? What is the matter?"
"Go away."
"No. You have to tell me. Come on, baby, what's wrong?"
"I can't tell you," he says into the pillow. His face is hot. He is burning up with lust, shame and confusion. "Go away, Fran, please."
Uncertainly, she gets up from the bed.
"Well...okay."
..To Be Continued
Peta Wilson lives in Australia and has a Personal Ad here...she invites your comments.