A Cross-Dresser's Tale

I came across this short story, if you can call it that, on a back up disc and thought it would be a laugh to post it. It's based on real-life events but is not an actual event. Let's just say someone inspired me to write it. I'm posting it to hopefully give others a bit of a chuckle too, no other reason.



‘I’m 100 per cent man, baby.’

I stared in disbelief. ‘All man’ didn’t begin to describe the scene in front of me. I knew there was something wrong when I first opened my bedroom door. My wardrobe gaped wide, my dresses and skirts thrown everywhere. A riot of multi-colour fabrics carpeted the floor. It looked like the aftermath of the winter sale in the women’s department at Harrod’s.

‘Can you help me with my make-up?’

I turned towards the bed in trepidation. My breathing was shallow, and I could feel beads of sweat breaking out on my upper lip.

Afternoon sunlight shone through the open curtains creating a spotlight. The marital bed became a strange stage, set up for a cabaret performance. His hands were clasped behind his head, and his eyes glowed in seductive promise.

I was so shocked by the sight greeting me I was barely able to comprehend what was going on.

My husband was wearing my clothes.

Not only was he wearing my clothes, he was wearing the dress I wore when we got married. I had saved money out of my wages for two months to buy that dress.

Instead of occupying its rightful place in my wardrobe, it adorned the body of my husband Sidney. At least he resembled Sidney. For a moment I wasn’t sure, but who else would be in my bedroom? Yes, it was his short blonde hair, his beak-like nose, his piercing blue eyes.

I knew I would never wear that dress again. Seeing the white lace lying against his bony shoulders sent a chill down my spine. I can’t begin to describe my thoughts when I glanced at his extremely hairy and skinny legs poking out from the short skirt.

Was he wearing my stockings as well?

As we stared at each other for seconds that stretched into hours, I realised that the house was very quiet. Since we had four kids, the house should have been filled with the usual sounds of utter chaos.

I panicked and asked, ‘Where are the kids?’

An enigmatic smile. ‘My mum picked them up this afternoon. They’re having a day out with Nanna.’

I prayed they left the house before Sidney started playing dress-up. I dreaded the idea of having to explain why Daddy looked like one of the ugly step-sisters in their favourite fairy tale. Was it panto season?

‘Honey, are you feeling okay?’ I asked, hoping, by some stroke of luck, this was the result of a complete break with reality or temporary amnesia. Perhaps he did have a part in the local panto. Stranger things had happened. They were happening to me now.

Or maybe I was dreaming. I didn’t remember going to bed, but isn’t that the way dreams usually work? I pinched myself and drew blood. No, I was wide awake, and now my arm hurt from my long fingernails biting into my skin.

‘Never better,’ the creature answered from the comfort of the double bed.

All kinds of questions ran through my head.

Was this some kind of a joke? Should I burst out in hysterical laughter? If he was having a mental break-down, it wouldn’t help matters if I laughed at him, but it was becoming difficult to control the nervous giggles lurking in my throat.

Was he trying to get in touch with his feminine side? I never knew he had one. Street-wise and homophobic, he informed me shortly after our marriage how the idea of men acting outside their traditional gender roles disgusted him. 'Treat em mean and keep em keen', he always said.

Should I express my shock and horror? Believe me, I was horrified.

A perfectly good dress, and I was going to have to burn it.

‘Go on,’ he whispered huskily. ‘Get your make-up out of the drawer and help me put it on.’

Was it Halloween, and I’d simply forgotten? The date quickly sprang to mind. It was the 20th of September. Definitely not Halloween.

‘What’s up, Sidney?’ I gently questioned.

‘I’m feeling sexy.’ He pouted.

Pouted? Razor stubble doesn’t go well with a pouting lower lip.

‘Ah, I see.’ My feet felt frozen to the floor. I ran through the options in rapid succession.

I decided it might be best to humour him.

I never wore a lot of make-up, so it only took me a few seconds to grab my powder, eye shadow and lipstick from my chest of drawers at the foot of the bed.

‘Mascara. Don’t forget the mascara.’

I had indeed forgotten the mascara, and when I turned back towards the bed, I was treated to Sidney's piece de resistance.

I could see straight up his skirt. My skirt.

He was wearing my knickers.

Oh God, I thought. Now not only was the dress going to have to be cremated, but I was going to have to burn my best pair of silk knickers. I might as well chuck the make-up on the pyre dedicated to male femininity as well.

Applying make-up to the face of a man with a day’s growth of beard and a jaw like a brick was a tricky endeavour. He wasn’t used to having mascara applied and blinked frequently during my ministrations. My horror became anger. I wanted to slap the pout off his she-male face.

His eyelashes were longer than mine.

‘How’s that?’ I asked him, hoping he was satisfied with his make over. Like a flash he was off the bed and preening in front of the dressing table mirror.

He purred.

Purred?

‘Get the camera.’

Okay. Now I understood. He was entering some kind of a contest. Who can be the ugliest woman in Britain. Right? I asked myself. I hoped I was right.

The camera was downstairs, and I was glad to take the stairs at a snail's pace to delay going back up and face the man wearing my dress, my knickers, my make-up. When I returned, he had unbuttoned the top button of the dress to expose more of his chest.

White lace, green fabric, and a tattoo that said ‘Mum’ poking out.

Sidney went through a supermodel’s poses as I took several pictures. When I put the camera down, he began taking the dress off. The row of gold buttons strained against their threads in his rush to disrobe.

‘Now take some of me like this.’

‘Just in silk knickers?’ This had to be a joke.

No, the expression on his face told me he was serious about this as well.

I humoured him, praying he would decide to destroy the pictures afterwards. A new terror struck me: he would have the film developed.

Why, oh why, hadn’t I taken the film out of the camera on my way back up the stairs?

‘Thank you, darling.’

Wearing nothing but a small pair of panties, a blush and a smile, he planted a kiss on my cheek and skipped into the bathroom to purr over his reflection in the full-length mirror.

Skipped?

I recovered my handbag and car keys from the bedroom floor where they had been dropped during my initial discovery.

‘Where are you going?’ he called from the bathroom doorway.

‘Shopping.’

I needed a new dress, new knickers, lighter fuel, a metal bin for burning rubbish …