Feeling weird as hell, I slipped on the green plaid skir�, I mean kilt. It was less binding than the skin shorts had been, but breezier as well. It felt just � odd. I couldn't believe I was wearing such a thing. It was just bizarre.

Then I checked myself in the mirror and nearly shit a brick. From the waist down I looked like a hot chick with great legs wearing a short skirt. Crap! If my dick hadn't fallen off, I'm sure it would've been hard!

I'd never been into cross-dressing. It wasn't that. It was just a case of seeing long smooth legs in a short, uh, kilt, even if they happened to be mine.

And, I guessed it wasn't that short, just a couple of inches above my kneecaps. But the effect, especially with my hairless legs, was still awfully weird.

And what kind of shirt was I supposed to wear? Traditional attire, according to the Internet, was a jacket or vest with a long blousy shirt with lots of ruffles. Ugh. Somewhere I found a tight-fitting black t-shirt with, "Go Green," and a shamrock printed in green ink that seemed to go. Thank goodness my mother hadn't bought me a tam o'shanter or one of those Glengarry caps shaped like a boat.

I tried a pair of sneakers but they were scruffy and didn't go at all. The green flats were much better despite what the mirror was telling me. They, too, showed off my weird smooth legs. I tried the white knee socks but quickly took them off. They made me look like a fifth-grade schoolgirl.

*****

I was still reconciling my self-image and my mirror image when Mom called me downstairs again. I went. I lifted my arms. I spun. My hem flared out. The new shoes slipped on the linoleum. I nearly puked. Mom beamed and told me I should spend the day like that. I mean, in the kilt, not puking, although I did nearly puke again.

In dread, and hoping no one would see me, I snuck out the back door.

* * * * *

At school, fortunately, only a few people laughed or smirked. A few girls winked. Lance high-fived me and proclaimed us comrades in kilts. Cliff shook his head then asked if it was really comfortable.

"It doesn't itch or anything, and it's cooler than pants or shorts. It's extra trouble to sit down, though, and it messes with my head," I told him. I certainly wasn't going to admit that it'd been my mom's idea, and that it sucked.

"Isn't it kind of, uh, fem?" Mark asked.

"No, it's just non-masculine," Lance asserted. His kilt that day was pleated camouflage, matched with black lace-up boots.

Aaron showed up in white tights, a blue long-sleeved blousy shirt with elastic in the waist, and white slippers.

"Dude, are you going out for ballet?" Mark blurted.

"No, these just cover more than skin shorts, don't you think?"

"Check the back, man," Mark advised, and then Aaron went off to find a mirror.

* * * * *

After first period a goth chick cut me off and then we bumped. "Sorry," I apologized, and then I headed off to second period. Then we bumped again and I apologized again

"Don't be sorry for acting your nature," the goth told me in a whispery voice, and then I took a good look at her.

She was all tricked out in a black lace corset, vest, and arm sleeves, a short dark purple skirt, black opera hose, black knee-highs, and black buckle shoes. Her face was covered with outlandish makeup, mostly pale and black but deep purple around the eyes. She was also wearing large ritual earrings, six or eight silver necklaces, at least as many silver bracelets, and a nose ring. Her hair was black streaked with purple, piled high and with big pigtails on both sides.

"Izzy?" I dared to ask.

"Not even close," hissed the possessed creature. "It's Demona Darque."

"Why are you dressed like that?"

"I could ask you the same question," replied Demona, eyeing me and my kilt.

"It seems kind of extreme," I stated. Her reply was another once-over, a stare, a wry smile, and a raised eyebrow.

"Free thinkers require coalescence," she intoned after an ephemeral pause.

"Well, I need to continue my journey," I improvised, and it was true. The second period bell was about to ring.

"As must we all," she replied and then, after bumping me again, she glided away.

In class I had trouble not thinking about her. Was she really that weird? She hadn't seemed that way the day before. How had she become so frightenly unusual? She was fascinating in an odd sort of way. Then again, what was I, sitting there in class with no dick, no balls, no underwear, and a kilt?

Speaking of which, I guess I accidentally made a scene. The teacher had to tell me to pull my hem down.

* * * * *

Lunch was a disaster. It seemed everyone in the place was staring at me, my kilt, my legs, or my shoes. In line, a flat guy in dark lipstick and a lycra shirt-kilt tried to feel me up. At least I think so. I mean being flat.

Aaron had gotten marker ink on his tights, but that didn't stop him from telling me my hem had slipped up. Twice.

Lance caught his kilt in the space between two benches.

Cliff was arguing with Mark about returning his skin shorts. Mark had them on.

A pom pom girl told me she liked my legs, and I tried to take it positively.

At least crazy Demona Darque didn't show up.

* * * * *

I ran into Demona on my way to last period class. Literally. She said nothing, but just stared at me.

"Destiny," I explained.

"Karma," she replied dreamily.

"So, do you want to do something after school again?" I asked.

"Like what? Read Anne Rice novels or kill the neighbor's black cat?"

"No, I thought� What does Demona do?"

"Drama club." Well, that made sense. "You know, I like the kilt but you need to work on the rest of your outfit. Maybe you could do that this afternoon."

"I don't know what you mean. Like go shopping?"

"If you're that clueless, then no, do something else," she advised, and then she floated away.

* * * * *

"Dude, how can I be more goth?" I asked Cliff after school.

"Wear pasty makeup and black clothes," he advised. "Eat bats. Join a coven. I'm not really into that, you know. Why do you ask? Is being dickless and wearing a kilt not weird enough for you?"

"No, its' just that Demona, no Izzy, no Sally, no Flat Girl, well, you know who I mean, she thinks I should work on my outfit."

"I don't think anybody could keep up with her," Cliff advised. "I mean, wait five minutes and who knows what she's going to be. You can't keep up."

"Maybe I should get a nose ring," I suggested. Hers had been strangely fascinating.

""Why? To keep up with that crazy chick? Anyway, she doesn't always wear it. It's probably a clip-on."

"Aaron has earrings."

"So get your ears pierced, or your nose, or whatever. Why are you asking me?"

"I could use some advice. Izzy says I'm clueless."

"Go figure," said Cliff, rolling his eyes, and then he had to go.

* * * * *

Aaron answered on the first ring. I told him want I wanted and he told me the shop was named Inka Binka.

The place was jammed. People were lined up to get themselves tattooed, their friends tattooed, and their packages tattooed. Some people were getting registered serial numbers (finder deposit any mailbox) and some were getting their name.

The piercer was doing a land office business as well, almost all of it on post-macho guys. The receptionist advised me not to go crazy right away, and then he suggested a pair of lightweight two-inch hoops. He also wanted to know where I got the kilt.

The piercer was dressed in a black leather bikini bottom, whatever he called it, and knee-length chaps. A leather jacket and motorcycle helmet hung from the wall. He was clearly as flat and as hairless as I.

"Any last words?" he greeted me.

"Less than you probably think. Are sure these aren't kind of large for a guy?"

"Who's a guy these days?" he replied and then, among all the other metal attached to his face, I noticed a couple of pair that were even larger.

"So what do I do?"

"Sit straight and don't move," he commanded, and then he ran me through, attached the open earring, and ran me through again. Then the other side. Then he said, "Keep those sterile and don't lay on 'em and don't take 'em out for two months. Next," and I was out.

* * * * *

My dad was due back from his business trip and showed up just in time for dinner. I panicked. How was I going to explain being in a, a, a kilt? How could I explain the shoes, or the smooth legs, or the earrings? Would he believe Mom had made me do it? Would she admit it? Would he blame me for losing my bits?

The instant he came through the door, though, he seemed upset, preoccupied, and uncomfortable. He didn't even notice my kilt or my smooth legs. Instead, he just headed straight upstairs for a shower. Later, at dinner, he seemed curiously withdrawn.

"Troy is separated," Mom remarked after we'd all sat down.

"Well, that makes two of us," Dad replied, but he didn't seem to get any joy from it.

"It's happening to a lot of guys," I consoled him. "Most of the guys I know are separated. Some of our teachers are separated. You see�"

"Yeah, I know some guys at the office who are separated, too," Dad remarked. "But that doesn't make it any easier for me."

"Or for me," I commiserated. "Uh, where did you put it?"

"It's still in my suitcase. Why?" he demanded.

"Well, mine's in a green refrigerator bowl on my dresser. I made holes in the top. I guess we don't want to get them confused."

"You can get serial numbers tattooed on them," Mom suggested. I knew she was right but my dad and I just glared at her.

"Well, it won't hurt when it's separated. That what they say in the ads."

We glared more.

"So dear, I guess you need some new underwear, new pants, or maybe even a kilt," Mom told Dad.

"It takes guts to wear a kilt," Dad responded, and at that moment I decided mine wasn't so bad.

* * * * *

After dinner Dad ran an Internet search for crossover shops and located a few in our area.

"I'm going out. Do you want to come along?" he offered. "You might find something you need."

"Uh, OK, but I'll change," I told him. I couldn't imagine wearing a so-called kilt in public with my dad.

"No, you're OK. It's a style now, especially for guys like us," he assured me.

"I'm not wearing any underwear," I complained.

"It's not like you need the support," he countered.

"There's nowhere to put my wallet and my phone and stuff," I told him, and while he was thinking about that my Mom offered the worst possible solution.

"I can loan you one of my bags," she proposed brightly and then, when I turned aghast, she continued, "Don't worry; I have one that's not too girly."

Mom rummaged around her room for a few minutes and returned with a brown suede shoulder bag decorated with cowboy fringe.

"Mom, I'm not carrying a purse!" I insisted.

"Then think of it as a bag, or a bandoleer, or a fanny pack looped on your shoulder, or whatever you like. I think you'll look good with it."

At that point I was ready to do without my wallet and phone and stuff, but Dad told me to load up the bag and get in the car. I guess he was in a hurry.

* * * * *

I don't know what I expected but the crossover shop wasn't small or dark or seedy at all. It was just like any other men's store except that all the zippers were on the side.

Dad looked at the flat-front briefs but I warned him about the visible panty lines. He'd always worn boxers anyway and so, softly cursing, he bought a few pair of flat-front no-fly ones. He had no interest at all in flat-front pants or shots, and even less in kilts. I loved him for that, even though (or perhaps because) I was still wearing a kilt myself. I was starting to get used to it, though, and nobody laughed or pointed or even took much notice. One of the sales guys was wearing a kilt and the store had them for sale. There was a plain black one that I sort of liked but Dad just threw me a glance and didn't jump on buying it.

We also bought two Package Pens, which were tinted glass terrariums that came with cotton for the bottom, water cups, heaters, and lids. We agreed that if his were on his dresser and mine on mine, we'd never get them confused.

I asked the sales guy about the water dishes and he swore that penises needed to drink. From that point until we got home, I was afraid my bits had dried of thirst.

* * * * *

At home I immediately set up my Package Pen, opened the refrigerator dish, and reached in to transfer my package. At first I thought something was wrong with it. It was dark, cool, limp, and pulsating. Then I got the idea, lifted my kilt, and held the back against my empty crotch.

Voila! It stuck! And the instant it did, I could feel all the familiar sensations again! The itch beneath my balls! The jiggle when I walked. The warmth and tension of an erection! It was back, baby, oh yeah it was back!

I peed standing up! I walked around with it nestled inside my kilt! I felt the soft fabric rubbing against it and even that was great! It got erect again! It pushed out my hem! I jerked off madly and then did it again! I felt hormones and energy just pulsing through my body! Then I tried jerking off again, and got the biggest erection of the evening, and it came off. No more fun, no more sensations, no more cock, no more balls, not for three or four days. Shit!

My kilt was a mess but it'd sure been handy for pissing and jerking off. I threw it in the hamper and made sure the other one was OK. My dad, after all, thought wearing one showed guts, and Lance seemed to be doing OK with his.

After that I took a shower and brought my stuff in with me. I didn't want it getting smelly, of course, and I didn't want it getting a rash. It was probably a good idea, I decided, to take it out and wash it in the sink once a day.

Later I tried going to sleep but Mom and Dad kept making noises down the hall. I wondered what they could possibly be doing.

* * * * *

Please leave feedback in the Story Reviews & Author Feedback board or via the e-mail link below.