Christine I - The Cesspool

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Before I get into the story, I have a rather lengthy editorial to share. I came up with all these thoughts, and the resulting story, during my own quest for castration. In 1995 I was desperate - so desperate that I purchased both an elastrator and a burdizzo. I quickly realized that the burdizzo was out of the question without help, and I had none. I experimented with the elastrator but again I felt it unwise to go all the way without help or supervision. My wife wasn’t absolutely against my castration, but I knew that she, being a nurse, would not go along with anything that wasn’t safe.

After over a year trying to find a cutter, it suddenly occurred to me that if anyone would know where to find a qualified castrator, it would be the Transgender community, so I began lurking around TG sites, newsgroups, etc, and that’s where I first heard of Dr. Spector who eventually castrated me in 1997. But during my quest I became acquainted with some of the people who are going through what I shall attempt to describe in this story. I developed something of an understanding for what these people face in society, in their lives, in their families. I was so profoundly affected by some of the issues that I began to write this story, hopefully accurately portraying some of what I have learned and observed.

Having explained the above, I dedicate this story to all those who are in some degree of gender identification crisis or confusion: Those I have met on the Internet, and those I haven’t. I don’t envy you, but I do admire you all. It must take a lot of courage just to live from day to day.

Christine - Prologue

What makes a girl a girl? Or a boy a boy? At what point in the development of a fetus is gender determined? There are many experts who think they have it all figured out. The doctor in the delivery room lifts the baby up by his or her feet, examines the plumbing, and declares “It’s a boy!” or “It’s a girl!” And that is that. Sometimes these days they even use ultrasound to look inside the uterus. If they see a penis then the baby is a boy and usually even has a name before it is even born. Biologists go a little deeper to analyze the process. They tell us that all fetuses begin development as females, then at some point, for reasons that are unclear, male genitalia sometimes appear and we have a male, not a female. But what about the person behind the plumbing? What about the mind? The attitudes? The environmental factors? What about birth defects? Other body parts appear where they’re not supposed to be, or don’t appear where they should be; isn’t that also possible with genitalia? Some people are born with both male and female parts. Isn’t it possible that some of us are simply born with the wrong parts?

Psychologists will be quick to tell us that it’s not that simple. Sometimes, they say, nature appears to have made a mistake. But there the agreement ends. Some believe that the person is one sex while that person’s genitals are wrong; others claim that the physical appearance is ample evidence of the true nature of the person, and all he/she needs is counseling to bring the mind in line with the physical. Still others believe that the person has been traumatized in some way which confuses the whole scenario. We have men of all ages who insist that they are male only in the physical sense. Some of them end up committing suicide, or spending thousands of dollars on various types of therapy; the lucky ones undergo some sort of surgical or chemical treatment to correct what they believe is wrong with them.

These unfortunate victims usually discover at a rather early age that their gender is wrong, at which point they begin a long saga of trying to adjust, trying to make parents and others close to them understand, and then attempting to correct the discrepancy in a variety of ways. Most are only partly successful; others achieve their goal sooner or later, but not without physical and emotional scars, sometimes very deep ones.

There is another type of transgender: the little boy whose mother “always wanted a daughter,” or the converse. Often these well meaning parents try to feminize their son or masculinize their daughter, which often results in a very confused child or adolescent; later on that confused person turns into a very angry or depressed adult. As a young teen I knew a little boy, about four years old, who was always attired in a dress with his hair long and curled. I have always wondered what happened to that child as he grew up.

There are also other victims of gender, and they are often never discovered, and it is extremely rare that they ever completely recover from the damage done. Take for example the young teen who recently shot up a high school in California. He was a “rather geeky” kid; he was a straight “A” student; his ears stuck out; at fifteen his voice was still the soprano of a small boy. So what is wrong with these things? Absolutely nothing of course, except that they are all “uncool.” They were so uncool that this unfortunate boy became the subject of ridicule, bullying, and abuse. He was too small to fight back, so he became more and more depressed. He didn’t fit in, and everyone has, to some degree, a need to fit in with his or her peers. His situation became so bad, he became so depressed, and then angry, that he did the unthinkable: he got a gun and started striking back in the only way he thought he could. The gun in his hand added a lot to his stature, and invoked a measure of respect, or at least fear.

Books are beginning to appear on the subject of the male phenomenon. The myth that boys don’t cry, they must be athletic, not artistic; boys must never show their feelings, unless of course it is anger or some other aggressive trait. Boys must not be attracted to other boys, or show affection in that direction; boys have a certain way they must dress; they must not play with dolls, like flowers, take music or ballet lessons. On and on goes the list of rules a boy must learn and obey. When I was a young teen I was not the least athletic. I couldn’t catch a cold, let alone a baseball. To this day I cannot adequately throw a ball without appearing to throw it “like a girl.” I took music lessons and always made good grades, and these things were important to me. I admit I was self-conscious about these things, but I did have a redeeming quality in the eyes of my peers: I was a farmer. At 10 years old I could operate a tractor as well as any man and in fact had to most of the time, so I had a ready made excuse for not playing sports: I was always working and didn’t have the time. Without that “out” I’m sure I would have been considered a sissy because of the way I acted, or didn’t act.

In a recent episode of the TV program “Judging Amy,” the judge had to deal with a young eight year old boy who was convinced that he should have been a girl. The well meaning Social Services department were trying to remove the boy from his parents’ home because they were keeping him out of school. They had complied with his wishes, but of course when he showed up at school wearing female attire, he was ridiculed and bullied by students and teachers alike. But yet no one bats an eye when girls wear pants, jeans, even their brothers’ and father’s clothes!

One of the incidents on this program that really caught my attention, and probably inspired me to write this story more than any other single factor, was the father’s testimony. The judge asked him several questions about what kind of a person his child was, how he felt about the current situation, etc, etc. At that point the frustrated father exclaimed, “What am I supposed to do, tell him I won’t love him unless he wears pants?” I mean, these parents were totally confused by their child’s behavior and wishes but they loved him enough, cared enough, that they were trying to deal with it in a way that the young boy/girl could be what he knew inside he was. But they were all alone! They were completely unequipped to deal with the situation, and there seemed to be no one there to help!

Then to me the most heartwarming line in the story: The judge asked the father what was the single most important factor in his allowing the boy to become a girl. The father answered without hesitation, “He laughs.”

“Excuse me?” the judge said.

“He laughs,” the father repeated. “The most beautiful sound to me is my child’s happy laughter, and I hadn’t heard it for two years until we allowed him to become a girl. Now she is happy again.”

Oh yes, the judge’s decision. First, she denied the State’s application to remove the child from the home. Then she addressed Sasha, the little boy’s preferred name. Sasha stood up, dressed in full drag and looking very pretty in her white blouse, plaid pleated skirt, white knee socks. One could not help but admire her, standing in front of the judge and all the other strangers in her skirt and blouse, almost defying them to challenge her. “I want you and your parents to get counseling to settle this matter once and for all,” the judge said. “You have to go to school, so I’m going to ask you a favor which will make it easier for you and everyone else. For the time you are in school, do you suppose you could ‘pretend’ to be a boy? All other times you can be yourself and dress any way you like, but during school, I want you to PRETEND you are a boy. Can you do that, Sasha?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sasha replied. “Does that mean I have to cut my hair?”

“No, Sasha,” the judge answered, “you can let your hair grow as long as you like.”

I personally am a happily married male. Well, as happy as anyone can be after having discovered too late that I should never have got married in the first place. There is no question that there is a problem with my gender identity, and I have known it since I was a small boy. I’m pretty sure I’m not a true TG, but I’ve wondered from time to time. I had some gay experiences when I was younger, which may or may not be a related factor. I don’t mean to suggest that being gay and being TG are one and the same; in most cases they are not. But having said that, I believe that if one has some sort of issue with his or her gender identity, it becomes a very confusing world. I have come to admire and envy those who figure it all out for themselves. Many, like myself, simply go through life never knowing exactly for sure what is wrong, only that things are not as they should be.

Here, then, is my story. It is purely fiction and not based on any real people or experiences, other than a few fragments here and there from my own past. At times it gets pretty idealistic, perhaps even fantastic! But it’s fiction, so please keep that in mind as you read. I hope you enjoy it.

There is not much erotic content in this story, nor is it my intent to “turn on” anyone. From time to time I will go into a pretty detailed description of various clothing. This is done not to excite anyone; I am merely trying to tell the story from the standpoint of someone experiencing it. Again, my intent is not to “turn you on,” but to encourage you to think; to tolerate; to walk a mile in the shoes of a Transgendered person.

Christine’s Story - Chapter 1

It happened before I even knew it; of course that’s the way it usually happens. As a small child at home, I was a very happy little boy. My mom and dad both adored me and I them. I had an older brother, ten years my senior. After he was born my parents couldn’t seem to have another baby no matter how hard they tried. Then when they were about to give up, along I came. A true “miracle from Heaven,” as they often told me. Meanwhile my brother John Jr. was well established in the world of boydom. He played every sport known to man and excelled in all of them. He was an Eagle Scout at age 13, was great looking, and had girls flocking around him before he was even ready for them. He was the true all-American boy: happy, well-adjusted, “all boy!” And to put the frosting on the cake, he had graduated high school two weeks ago and the very next day had left for boot camp. John was determined to become a Navy Seal!

I idolized my big brother. As popular as he was, and as accomplished in everything he did, Johnny always had time for me, his little sidekick. He loved me, protected me, encouraged me. When I needed help tying my shoes, or later with homework, it was usually Johnny who helped me, not my parents. The best part was, he didn’t help me because he had to, he did it because he WANTED to! I think he loved me as much as I loved him! With Johnny there were never any demands, never any questions about my athletic prowess or lack of it. Johnny was Johnny and I was me, and that was good enough for him. Now that he was gone, it was going to be very lonesome for me and my parents knew it.

And then there was me: Christopher Elliot. I was small for my age, had little interest in sports, but could play the piano quite well by the time I was six. I could sing with the best of them, my little boy voice reaching dizzying heights with the purity and clarity of one who had taken singing lessons for half a lifetime. I had the most beautiful dark red hair, naturally curly - the kind of hair that any girl would die for! Before I started school my mother had let it grow long, so that even when I began getting teased at school for having “girl’s hair” I refused to allow it to be cut. No one but my mom was allowed to touch my hair. No one!

When I started kindergarten at five, I attacked my reading and writing lessons with a vengeance. Well, wasn’t that why I was there? Although I didn’t say anything, I felt extremely frustrated, almost offended by the rough and tumble antics of many of my male classmates. I was what my mother often called a “sensitive boy.” There was never any doubt in my mind that my parents, both of them, valued and cherished me just as much as my brother John. We were as different as night and day, but we both had qualities to be admired and we were both encouraged in our every endeavor.

When I was seven years old, I began to become painfully aware that the world around me wasn’t nearly as tolerant or accepting as my wonderful family. Even at that young age, in the second grade, I started to notice that my classmates, my BOY classmates, would arrange a pickup ball game after school. They would haggle and argue over who would be on whose team, who would play what position. I was always excluded from these discussions. Somewhere along the way, I’m not even sure when or how, word got around that Christopher Elliot wasn’t terribly interested in sports, couldn’t throw a ball five feet, and couldn’t catch a cold, let alone a ball. So in the second grade, the die was already cast irrevocably: I was a “sissy kid” who simply didn’t fit in. By the time I realized what was happening it was already too late to change it, even if I had wanted to.

I had my own agenda back then: I paid attention to how I looked, in the sense that I was always clean, simply could not stand to have dirty hands or soiled clothes; it was important to me that my grades were good, that I gleaned every bit of learning I could from each school day, and that the teacher was pleased with me. My music was important to me and I thoroughly enjoyed performing in recitals. Then just after Christmas that year in the second grade, I sealed my doom for sure: my music teacher talked my mom into sending me for ballet lessons. I absolutely loved it! I can remember one day in March, one of the few times I was asked to play in a soccer game because they were one kid short. My reply: “Sorry, my mom is picking me up right after school so I won’t be late for ballet.” That was that! I got a few strange looks, then the kids all discovered that they had somewhere else they had to be. It was as if I had leprosy!

I don’t want to leave the impression that I never did boy things, because I did. I loved to go fishing with my dad, and he and I often went camping, and I was quite an accomplished woodsman by the time I was seven. Looking back, I suppose even that was unusual for a boy. While other kids were finding small animals or bugs to torture, I was listening eagerly as my dad explained the intricacies of building a fire or the importance of protecting and appreciating wildlife and the world around us. My mother and I would often watch and discuss some beautiful bird as it visited the many bird feeders my mom always had amply stocked. But as any boy will attest, the complete acceptance of my family wasn’t enough. The fact that I was becoming an outcast with my peers was beginning to have an effect, even at that age. I didn’t even know what the word meant at the time, but the truth is I was becoming quite depressed.

I had a cousin one year younger than I was. Gail and I were unquestionably best friends. I was small for my age, so Gail and I were almost exactly the same size. When we were together there was no such thing as gender. We were simply two children who played well together, slept over with each other in the same bed without giving it a thought, practiced music and ballet. We were perfectly in tune with each other, and neither our parents nor we could see anything wrong with that, but my friends sure did. So when other children were included in our play, it was always Gail’s friends - GIRL friends, not mine because I really didn’t have any. It seems I had unwittingly broken another one of life’s little rules: It’s ok for girls to associate with boys, but it is unthinkable for boys to play with girls.

Gail and I played the usual children’s games: hide and seek, tag, step on a crack, etc, etc. I had a large collection of little cars and we played with them a lot, and... and... another boy no-no: we played with Gail’s Barbie dolls. I was totally comfortable playing with those dolls and never gave it a thought until one day when I was seven my best (and only) friend David arrived at our house unexpectedly. Gail and I were in my room playing with Gail’s Barbie collection. “Chris!” he exclaimed, “what are you doing?”

“Playing with Gail,” I replied. “What does it look like?”

“You’re playin’ with DOLLS!” he said, the venom in his voice very evident. Another nail in my coffin as a boy in good standing as David left the house in disgust. That ended our friendship and further disgraced me at school when David told all the other boys that I play with dolls.

Well, enough about me, and on with my story. As I said before, I was eight years old when it began. I had just finished third grade, and was in for a very unusual, very pleasant summer. My father John and his brother Dan, Gail’s father, were not at all wealthy, but they were honest, hard working men. They had conspired to work together to build two houses side by side on a large tract of land they’d managed to buy at a very reasonable price. That thrilled me because I adored my Uncle Dan and he liked me, not to mention that Gail and I would now be closer. Previous to this, we had lived five miles apart so we didn’t see as much of each other as we would have liked.

Dad and Uncle Dan were very close. They had been best friends all the time they were growing up, and even now it was unusual to see one and not the other. Dad has lost his job last year through no fault of his own, Uncle Dan was already unemployed, so they had started their own business building and selling computers. Back then it was not so competitive, and good computer people were hard to find. The business was doing ok, but the money certainly wasn’t rolling in yet.

Now it was June 11 and school was out for the year. The lease on the house we’d been renting had expired, so we were basically homeless. My dad and Uncle Dan had bought an old pop-up tent trailer which would be home for my mom and me, Gail and Aunt Julia. The men would stay in the new houses and finish them so we could move in before school started in the fall. Their first job, as soon as we had left, was to have movers come in and pack all our belongings, then put it all in storage until fall. Gail and I were looking forward excitedly to a great summer in a camp ground about 100 miles away, then new homes, a new school, in a new town when it was over. Little did I know just how exciting it was going to be!

“Everybody ready?” Aunt Julia asked from the driver’s seat as we all settled into the car.

I’m ready,” I replied.

“Me too,” Gail confirmed.

Hugs and kisses were exchanged all around, women assured the men that they could set up camp alone, men assured women that they would be up to see us for a day or two in three weeks, and we were finally off!

Gail and I sat in the back seat and chatted happily while Mom and Aunt Julia talked women talk in the front seat. “I thought you were gonna cut your hair?” Gail questioned.

“Yeah,” I replied. “But Mom and me decided we’d wait till school starts again. The kids are startin’ to tease me about it big time.”

“I dunno why they’d tease you,” Gail observed. “I think your hair is pretty. I wish I had it!”

“Boys aren’t supposed to be ‘pretty!’” I exclaimed forcefully. “Besides, your hair is nice. I like it.”

“Not as nice as yours.”

“You’re just prejudiced,” Mom interjected from the front seat. It was true and I knew it: Gail thought of me more as a big brother than an older cousin. In her eyes I could do no wrong, had no flaws!

As the conversation dried up, Gail reached into her handbag and produced a deck of kids’ playing cards, and we busied ourselves playing various card games. That was another difference between boys and girls I had never understood. Boys had pockets, girls had handbags! I always had a load of various treasures in my pockets, but there was never enough room for things like decks of cards, extra pencils, other emergency supplies. In my mind, the ideal world would have children in it who had the pockets of a boy and the handbags of a girl! But even I knew better than to try carrying a handbag! That would be political suicide for a small boy!

Aunt Julia’s old Chevy didn’t take kindly to suddenly pulling a trailer into the mountains. Dad and Uncle Dan had kept the better vehicle, a mini-van, for hauling equipment and supplies both at home and at work. Aunt Julia coaxed the ancient Chevy up and down the hills, eventually getting us to where we were going to be camping in a little more then three hours. This place was incredible! There were huge pine trees everywhere; a cool mountain stream meandered through the wooded campsites, with docks everywhere for a small boy and girl to sit and fish. There was a swimming pool and a small general store where campers could buy things like bread and milk, coffee, and other staples. Of course I noticed as we drove in the gate that there was no shortage of candy bars in the store, but I also realized that on our budget we wouldn’t be reducing their supply in any significant amount.

“You two run and play,” Mom instructed as soon as we were checked in and the car was at our campsite. “Julia and I will set up the tent. Stay out of trouble and most of all, STAY AWAY FROM THE WATER!”

“Yes, ma’am,” Gail and I chorused. Then we were off to explore this wonderful place that would be our home for two months. This was bound to be the best summer ever in our young lives! Looking back now, I am still astonished at the sequence of events that followed. It was almost as if the whole scenario had been designed from the day I was born! Starting that summer I heard the word ‘destiny’ so much I wondered how I’d ever got along before I learned the word!

I was still rather bummed out over the loss of my friends at school, and for reasons I didn’t understand at all! Gail, on the other hand, seemed to be inundated with friends! She had cried and wailed about leaving the old neighborhood, while I was relieved. For me this would be a new start; a new chance at making friends and getting it right. The only problem was, I wasn’t at all sure what I’d done wrong the first time around, so how could I correct it? But no matter, for the next two months Gail and I were together, and that was all either of us needed. We were totally thrilled as we walked hand in hand around the campground, checking out the various trailers, tents and campers. This was truly an amazing place, and it was all ours for the whole summer.

When we saw the pond, it seemed only natural for us to investigate it. We hadn’t even noticed that we’d wandered into an area with no campers. Off to one side we noticed an area that looked like an equipment shed or something, which made that pond all the more intriguing. What a strange place to put a pond! Then when I spotted the lilies growing not too far from shore, I had to have a bouquet to take back to Mom. Of course Gail wanted one too, but she reminded me that we’d been told to stay away from the water. “Mom was talking about the river,” I explained. “Besides, this pond can’t be that deep. I’m not gonna get in the water anyway - I’ll just get a stick and pull the lilies in where we can pick them.”

If you’re sure...” Gail said doubtfully. “Girls!” I thought to myself as I picked up a stick with a sort of hook on the end, “Always worry about dangers that don’t exist!” Then I felt guilty for having thought it. I was as bad as the others, putting down girls! And Gail was a pretty cool little kid, girl or not.

When the camp service pickup pulled into the Elliot campsite an hour later with two crying children in the back, Julia and Susan Elliot were horror struck. They knew there’d been trouble, but at least they could tell from the wails that the kids were alive, and their lungs certainly were still working at capacity.

“We’re sorry, Mrs. Elliot,” the driver said as the two women came running from behind the camper. “The little boy fell in the cess pool.”

“The cess pool?” Susan demanded. “Is he... is he all right?”

“He’s fine, ma’am. Just a little smelly at the moment and his dignity has taken a big hit.”

“Christopher,” she scolded, “I told you to stay away from the water!” Of course the cross tone of her voice brought a fresh volley of tears from Gail and me.

“Please don’t be too hard on them, ma’am,” the kind driver pleaded. “He got quite a fright as it was, and it really wasn’t his fault. The ‘NO TRESPASSING’ sign had fallen down, and one of the men left the gate open. They couldn’t possibly know they were in an area they shouldn’t be. It was our fault, really.”

The man lifted me easily out of the truck bed, paying no thought to how much of the stinking mess that coated me was getting on his own clothes. For some reason I warmed to this kind man instantly. Still sniffling a little, I managed to get out a weak “Thank you, sir,” then turned to face the punishment I knew would come from my mother. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I blubbered, “I only wanted to get you...”

“It’s ok, Christopher. But we’ve got to get you cleaned up. You smell terrible! Where did you put your suitcase?”

“My suitcase? Mom, I put it right by my bed last night, like you told me to.”

“Christopher, today. TODAY! I told you to get it and put it in the car!”

“Mom, you told me that YOU had got it and put it in the car.”

“No, Chris, I called from the kitchen and asked YOU to get it. I was afraid of this. Son, you have no clean clothes! Not a stitch! What on earth are we gonna do now?”

“Take him to the shower and get him cleaned up,” Aunt Julia instructed. “I’ll dig out Gail’s bathrobe for him to come back with, and we’ll figure out something from there.”

“Gail’s bathrobe?” I questioned.

“It’s either that or walk back from the showers naked,” Mom pointed out. “I’m gonna have to cut these clothes off you, they’re ruined! Now come on, I don’t like the idea of that filth being on your body any longer than necessary.”

I was a little embarrassed going into the ladies’ shower with my mom, but she insisted, saying I really had no choice. Fortunately it was still early afternoon and the shower area was deserted. I stood there shivering, even though the temperature was well over 90, while I felt the cold steel of the scissors slide down my back, cutting the nasty clothes off my body. Nothing could be salvaged: T-shirt and shorts, underpants, sneakers and socks, all ruined beyond reclamation!

Mom scrubbed me until my skin was red, then toweled me dry. I couldn’t let on, of course, but I was loving the attention. “There,” she said as she picked up a beautiful quilted pink satin robe. “We’ll have to brush out your hair, but let’s get you back to the camper first and figure out what you’re gonna wear.”

It felt so incredibly luxurious to be clean again I would have welcomed anything to wear, so I didn’t give it a second thought, but slid my arms into Gail’s bathrobe as if I’d been doing it my entire life. It wasn’t until we were almost back to the camper that I realized what I was wearing. As I was turning a brilliant crimson, I stopped to think that we had passed several campsites with children of all ages running about, and no one had paid me any attention at all! I looked down. Yes, there was no mistaking that this was a girl’s robe; well, housecoat was what Gail called it. It was a pale pink, with tiny light brown bunnies and yellow kittens all over it. Yet I saw several kids, some boys my own age, glance up at us, then return to their play.

“That fits you quite well,” Aunt Julia commented back in the tent.

“It looks good on you, Chris,” Gail said cheerily. “You can just wear some of my clothes. I got lots!” I shot a look at Gail that would wilt a cactus, but she paid me no mind. I was screaming “SHUT UP, GAIL!” in my head, but our usual subliminal connection seemed broken. She kept at it. “This is gonna be so neat,” she prattled on. “It’ll be just like having a big sister.”

I eyed my mom pleadingly. She looked at me, then at Gail, then Aunt Julia, who just nodded. “Christopher,” she said in the kindest voice I have ever heard from her, “I don’t see that we have a choice right now. We don’t have a stitch of clothes for you, and you already know that money is pretty tight right now, with the new house and all. I don’t see how I can spend the money on all the clothes you’ll need, when you have a perfectly good wardrobe at home.”

“Can’t you call Dad and get him to bring my suitcase?” I asked desperately.

“I’ll ask him of course,” she agreed. “But I’m afraid it’ll be too late. There’s no phone in the new house yet, and we’re not scheduled to talk on the phone until day after tomorrow when he’s gonna call here. Your suitcase is probably gone to storage by now. I’m afraid you’re just going to have to...”

“NO, MOM!” I protested loudly. “I won’t! They’re girls’ clothes!”

“More importantly, they’re clothes,” she reminded me. “You don’t have to worry about being made fun of here. No one knows you, so you can just let them think you’re a girl.”

“A GIRL?” I demanded. “Me, a GIRL? NO WAY, MOM!”

“What’s wrong with being a girl?” Gail asked, confused. “I thought you liked me.”

“I do,” I said. “But I’m not a girl, I’m a boy. I can’t! I just can’t!”

“Come into the tent with me, Christopher,” Mom ordered. “I think we need to have a little talk.”

“Mom,” I begged, “please don’t make me wear a dress. PLEASE?”

“Why not, Chris? Your only other choice is to spend all your time here in this tent. And it’s gonna get hot in here. Don’t you remember when you were four and started wetting the bed? What did we do?”

“Put me in diapers. But that was different.”

“Why was it different? From where I sit it looks like the same thing. We had a problem and there was an obvious solution. So we did it. You fought then too, didn’t you?”

“Uh-huh,” I replied weakly.

“But then you admitted that wearing a diaper was better than waking up in a wet bed, didn’t you? You wore them every night and every morning you were wet, but your bed was dry. Isn’t that right?”

“Errr... yes, Ma’am.”

“How long did you wear diapers at night?”

“Till I was six. But...”

“But you didn’t need them that long, did you?”

“Course I did! You think I’m a baby?”

“No Christopher, I think you’re a wonderful little boy. And you told me yourself when you were five that you really didn’t think you needed the diapers any more, but you liked them and wanted to keep wearing them. Didn’t you tell me that?”

“Yes, ma’am. But...”

“Christopher, those diapers are expensive! But we allowed you to wear them for a full year after you yourself admitted that you didn’t need them! We let you wear them until you had got it out of your system. Now we are in another jam, and there’s an obvious solution. Now won’t you do me a favor and try it? I promise you that if you’ll wear Gail’s clothes for two days, if anyone notices and makes fun of you, I’ll take you into town myself and buy you some clothes. If after two days you’re not ok with it, we’ll find the money somehow to get you some clothes. But you’d be doing me a real favor if you’d just try it. I think you’ll feel better about it, and you might even enjoy it. After all, it is kinda like being naughty, don’t you think? Kinda like it being Hallowe’en every day.”

I couldn’t help grinning just a little, and my mom knew she had me. She also knew what I didn’t: that there was a tremendous heat wave coming our way, and the 95 degree heat outside was nothing compared to what it would be the rest of the week. Even today, the temperature in the tent was well over 100, certainly not a place I wanted to spend the rest of the day. She knew that I’d be cooler and more comfortable in a light cotton sun dress, if only I could get over the emotional trauma of wearing a dress. “Okay, Mom,” I said finally, “I’ll try it. But you better be ready to take me into town day after tomorrow.”

“It’s a deal, son. As usual, I’m proud of you!”

“COOL!” Gail exclaimed when we emerged from the tent and announced the news. “You can be my sister all summer!”

‘“Two days!” I reminded her. “Mom and I are going into town in two days and she’s gonna buy me some clothes. So enjoy your sister, Gail. Day after tomorrow she’s gonna disappear forever.”

“Gail and I have been talking while you two were in the tent,” Aunt Julia said. “Christopher, did you know your name has a female form?”

“Female form?” I questioned. “So what?”

“Well, we were just thinking, while you’re wearing Gail’s clothes, you’re gonna get some pretty strange looks if you introduce yourself as “Christopher.” It might be better if you refer to yourself as “Christine.”

“Christine?” I mulled the name over in my mind. There was no doubt, it was a pretty name. “Christine,” I said again aloud. “That’s a nice name. But I don’t need it, I’ve just gotta get through today and tomorrow. I’ll just stay outa sight.”

“That’s fine,” Aunt Julia said. “It was just a thought. Gail, why don’t you take Christopher into the tent and help him get dressed? He’s probably tired of wearing that hot robe.”

“Mom!” I begged, “can’t you do it? I gotta get naked in front of Gail?”

“Chris,” Mom laughed, “You and Gail have bathed together since you were babies!”

“But... but that was when we were little kids!”

“Just do it, Chris! Believe me, you don’t have anything Gail hasn’t already seen.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I answered.

To be continued...