Tracy Lane, 2013/2021.
Released into the Public Domain.

Royal Flash

Snapshots from the childhood we should have had :)

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Note: this story is set in the Tranziverse. The protagonist is biologically male but looks anatomically female.

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You know, I remember when the cancan was considered very sexy. Petticoats were just going out of fashion when I was growing up, and practically every girl I knew wore fluffy little petti-sets back in those days. Needless to say, they all loved revealing their pettis on the flimsiest pretexts - mainly because they knew how cute they looked.

Unfortunately, this posed something of a quandary for me. Being the only boy in our dance troupe, I felt rather envious of my classmates, especially when they went twirling across the dance floor at our monthly Ballet School socials. As long as I could recall, I'd wondered why so much had been denied to me by an accident of birth, why I couldn't enjoy the same luxuries, indulge myself in the opulent corsetry and glittering crinolines that I saw all around me.

Fortunately, advantages have always come thick and fast in our part of the Empire: my Mom was a "Lindy" fanatic from way back (it was, in fact, the reason I enrolled at Ridgewick Dance Academy), and encouraged me to join in the festivities. She was well aware of my unspoken gender fantasies - had been since my tenth birthday, as I later discovered - and thought this would be the perfect opportunity to ease me into the subtle delights of satin and lace.

And for the first time in my life, I raised no objections whatsoever.

Mom and I worked tireless at perfecting my Lindy. We followed a kind of ritual almost every night - come 6.30 pm, she'd put Benny Goodman on the record player while I went upstairs to climb into the specially tailored costume she'd bought me. Once the music started up, I'd whirl around the living room with my skirts flying almost straight out from my waist. Mom always praised my antics, apparently it reminded her of the "good old days" during the war. After a while, I stopped wearing my standard-issue denims around the house and opted for more feminine attire, including shifts, dresses and sunfrocks. It all seemed completely natural at the time: I began to venture outdoors on occasion, shedding my inhibitions with each new excursion.

My mother was surprisingly supportive during my transition: impressed by my resolve, she bought me several packs of sleek nylon panties - five for a pound back in those days - along with a brace of training bras and candy-colored half-slips. Looking back now, it's amazing how quickly I assumed my new identity. After I grew my hair out, even the girls down at the Academy accepted me as one of their own, inviting me out for day trips and window-shopping expeditions. I think my transformation concluded when I slipped on a leotard and tutu at dance class - something my teacher, Ms Evelyn Deane, had been expecting for a while.

Given the circumstances, my eventual segue into the cancan was inevitable.

It all started on a long, lazy Saturday afternoon, when three of my friends dropped by for lunch and staged an impromptu backyard concert. At some point, I began turning cartwheels to amuse the crowd, raising a storm of catcalls every time my skirt flipped upside-down. Mom came to the back door to see what the racket was, and laughed out loud as she saw me wheeling across the lawn. Contrary to popular belief, this was normal behaviour for girls back then - even those of the transgendered variety - and Mom jokingly asked if we were practicing the cancan. I replied with an indignant "No!" but of course everyone was giggling at sight of my pink satin knickers.

It goes without saying that I was familiar with Le Chahut from dance class, movies and TV; like most 'girls' my age, I thought it was the cheekiest dance imaginable, chiefly because it involved showing off your pristine white undies to all and sundry. Mom's teasing comment set some wheels turning in my mind, and a few days later I asked my ballet instructor if she could teach me how to dance the cancan.

Ms Deane accepted my request without discussion - again, she seemed to have anticipated the question - then immediately put me through my paces, drilling me relentlessly for one of the longest (and most satisfying) weeks of my life. The acrobatics weren't much different from what I did in gym class at school; mainly cartwheels, handsprings and step-overs. That was the easy part; as any ballet student tell you, the cancan is one of the most physically demanding routines to master.

Seven grueling days later, Ms Deane told me that my progress had been satisfactory (high praise indeed), adding that if I showed sufficient improvement over the next few months, I'd be competing in the Winter Eisteddfod at the end of the year. This was an honor beyond anything I could have imagined; a place in the most prestigious arts festival in the entire region.

My Mother was utterly thrilled by this new development, throwing her arms around me as if I'd already won a silver medal. In preparation for the upcoming recital, she cleared out a space in the back room where I could refine my number; she even put the "Cancan Polka" song on the radiogram so I could sing along while I practiced.

Several weeks later, Mom mentioned the upcoming recital to her bridge club and naturally, they all agreed it was time for a Command Performance. Initially I played coy, but after just a little coaxing, I let Mom take me upstairs to change into my Official Costume (consisting of garish red ball-gown, a three-tiered petticoat, and a pair of black mary-janes). Once I was ready, we went back to the living room, where Mom put Offenbach on the player (the "real" cancan from Orpheus in the Underworld this time). I couldn't stop grinning - somehow, I'd known this moment would be inevitable, and I'd been looking forward to it all day long.

Anyhow, as soon as the music started, I launched into my routine, dazzling my audience with lots of panty-flashing kicks, spins and handstands. The best part was at the end, where I bent over and flipped my petticoats up at the back, shaking my bottom from side to side. Everybody applauded this "Royal Flash," demanding an encore in the spot (to which I graciously obliged, following a full minute of bald-faced ego stroking). It was the first of many such spectacles: sometimes at Christmas, I was called upon to entertain friends and relatives with my scandalous routine, frequently winning a standing ovation for my efforts - especially after Mom bought me a lavishly frilled pair of tennis knickers to go with my costume!

And as for the Winter Eisteddfod? Now that's a tale worth the telling.

Maybe some day I'll get 'round to it.