Ethan’s World

by Daphne Childress

Ethan Martin and his mother live a simple life in a small Southern town... with a twist: She makes dresses to pay the bills and he helps out as best he can.
 

Chapter Thirty-Five: An Embarrassing Development

Nature calls, feelings are explored. And Aunt DeeDee, of all people, offers wisdom.
 

There were moments Ethan preferred not to think about.

Unfortunately, they had a habit of bubbling back up when he least expected them—like soapy water through a sponge, impossible to hold without making a mess.

It started innocently enough. It was a Wednesday afternoon when Colleen had asked him—ever so sweetly—to give the kitchen floor a “proper scrub.” Not just a lazy wipe with the mop, but a real job, like a good little homemaker would do. She even tied the frilly apron around his waist herself, patting his shoulder afterward like she always did when she knew she’d gotten her way.

“You’ll look darling down there with your bucket and brush,” she’d said with a wink, handing him the lemon-scented soap flakes and a pair of rubber gloves.

He was wearing one of his housewife dresses—red gingham with a Peter Pan collar and short puffed sleeves. The matching belt cinched at the waist gave him a noticeable shape, especially with the soft cup bra underneath. He hadn’t filled it out, exactly, but Colleen had stuffed it with tissue to help the fabric hang correctly, and it bounced a little when he moved. Underneath it all, his panties clung just a bit too snug, courtesy of the warm day and the tight elastic waistband.

He knelt at the far end of the kitchen, bucket beside him, scrubbing in small, determined circles, his little charm bracelet clicking with each swirl. His mother had gone upstairs to sort laundry, which should have been a relief—but instead, it left him alone with his thoughts… and that feeling.

At first, it was just a flicker—nothing more than a tingle below the waist. He ignored it. Dipped the brush. Scrubbed. Rinsed.

Another circle.

The feeling persisted. Not painful, not exactly, just… there. A swelling, a pressure. An unexpected tingling. A definite distraction. The more he scrubbed, the more he felt… it.

The friction of his thighs rubbing against it as he scrubbed. The swish of his skirt each time he shifted. The tickle of the hem against his thigh. The elastic waistband of his panties pulling and stretching around his hips. The soft tug of the bra straps over his shoulders. He scrubbed harder to push the thoughts away. That only made the feeling stronger. And harder.

And then it happened—the slow, stiffening realization that he was, undeniably, aroused.

Ethan froze, horrified. His cheeks went red—not just a little warm, but blazing. He dropped the brush with a clatter and sat back on his heels, panting slightly, hands trembling in his rubber gloves.

Why?

What’s wrong with me?

It’s just cleaning… it’s just a dress…

But his body disagreed.

That was when Colleen returned, humming lightly to herself and holding a laundry basket. She stopped mid-step.

“Sweetheart, are you all right? You look flushed.” She tilted her head. “Too much scrubbing, maybe?”

Ethan scrambled to his feet, eyes wide. “I—I’m fine. Just hot. I mean—it’s warm. In here. I guess.”

She gave him a long look, up at his face, and then down. The kind of look that said Mother knows, even if she said nothing out loud. Then, mercifully, she set down the basket and walked over to open the window.

“Well, take a little break,” she said gently. “We wouldn’t want you to work yourself into a fainting spell, would we?”

He nodded, ducking his head. That's when he saw the little bump pressing against the front of his apron, ever so slight but evident if you looked for it. His legs wobbled as he escaped toward the hallway, praying she hadn’t seen anything.

But he knew she had.

 

* * *
 

It happened again, this time in the most awkward of moments.

Colleen did as she had so often before and handed Ethan the pale pink mesh bag filled with their most delicate items. “These need a little extra care. Just a quick soak, like I showed you, and a light wash. Not too hard, now. You can manage that, can’t you, sweetheart?”

Of course he’d said yes. That was what he always said.

Washing his mother’s—and in the last few months, his own—lingerie had become routine. Every few days he’d stand at the old porcelain basin in the laundry room, the sleeves of his housewife dress pushed up, apron tied snugly, softly humming (without realizing it) as he dipped nylon and lace and satin into warm, soapy water.

It should have been nothing. Mundane. Boring. Routine.

But the truth was… he enjoyed it. A lot.

Not just the quiet, or the rhythm, or the way the water made the fabrics shimmer. He had grown to enjoy the things themselves. The textures. The colors—pastels, creams, and soft florals. The way a brassiere floated like a jellyfish when he let it go. The strange, sweet embarrassment of seeing his own panties twist beside his mother’s in the bath like old friends.

And always the scent.

Colleen used lavender silk wash from a glass bottle with a delicate stopper. Just a capful turned the whole room into something floral and faintly grown-up. A woman’s aroma.

Ethan leaned over the basin and squeezed a pair of her panties between his hands, lifting it to rinse. The water trickled down his forearms. The panties slid through his fingers like a secret.

A soft pulse stirred below his waistband. Right where he was pressed up against the sink.

He didn’t mean to react. He wasn’t thinking those kinds of thoughts. Not about his mother’s laundry. He just… couldn’t help it. His body was misbehaving again. As though it liked the intimacy. The softness. The submission of the task itself.

He stepped back from the basin, heart pounding, cheeks burning, lungs heaving. He wiped his hands on a towel and glanced over his shoulder, as though someone might be watching. But of course, he was alone.

Still—he felt seen.

It took him a moment to recover, then he resumed his chore. And it happened again. That stiffness, that weird feeling, the twitching and… the delightful but shameful little tingle that spread through his entire body as he pressed his hips against the basin and scrubbed his mother’s underthings. He wanted to stop again, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good—so he kept at it, fighting the odd sensation while at the same time struggling to get the job done.

There was a sudden shudder, the electric shock, the wave of pleasure... followed by trembling and then… a breathless feeling of exhaustion and embarrassment.

“Oh. Oh... oooh...”

By the time he was done… he was done. He hung everything up and hurried past his mother on the stairs—skirts and petticoats swirling—toward the second floor bathroom.

“Ethan? Darling, are you all right—”

Later that evening, as he folded that same pair of his mother’s panties and tucked it carefully into the lingerie drawer, he hesitated.

It was still warm from the radiator.

Still smelled like lavender.

And for just one, shameful second, he brought it to his cheek.

 

* * *
 

Aunt DeeDee had never been shy. That was part of the problem.

She talked with her hands. She laughed from the belly. She smoked cigarettes with one eyebrow raised and always had something to say about someone, even if she had to invent them on the spot. She also wore her blouses tight, and her sweaters tighter—and whether she noticed or not (she did), Ethan had started seeing her in a different way.

Not every time. But increasingly. And that was bad enough.

It was a Sunday afternoon, and they were in the living room while Colleen was in the sewing room taking a phone call. Ethan was seated on the floor, legs tucked modestly under him (as he’d been coached), while DeeDee rested on the couch, swirling her iced tea and watching him with a kind of lazy amusement.

He wasn’t wearing anything fancy—just one of his everyday frocks, yellow cotton print with white lace trimming and a little bow at the collar. White ankle socks and no shoes. A plastic headband with a little daisy over his right ear. The kind of thing Colleen said made him look “sweet but sensible.”

They were talking about school—DeeDee asking questions, Ethan giving short answers—when she leaned forward to set her tea down.

And suddenly, he saw everything—well, not everything, but enough.

Her blouse gaped open to reveal the fleshy top of her cleavage. Close enough to touch. Her breasts seemed so immense, so incredible. So beautiful. Her bra cups were lacey, red, and utterly hypnotic—the fragrance of yard sale perfume added to the moment. She wasn't indecent. Just… human. And intimate. And real.

He stared. Just for a second.

But it was enough to set off that feeling again. Right in front of the one person most likely to figure it out.

“Hey, kid,” DeeDee said, not unkindly. “My eyes are up here.”

Ethan went stiff. His face turned the color of boiled tomatoes.

“I—I didn’t mean—”

She held up her hand. “Relax. I’m flattered. A little weirded out… but flattered.”

He wanted to sink into the floor. To vanish behind the settee. To run upstairs and hide in Emily’s wardrobe and never come out.

Instead, he sat frozen, silent, willing himself to un-blush. It didn’t work.

She chuckled, softer this time. “Be cool, little mister. You’re growing up, that’s all. But you’re not grown-up. Just try not to ogle your elders. Or at least don’t get caught.”

When Colleen returned, she said nothing. But later, as DeeDee was leaving, she turned and winked at Ethan.

“Sweet kid,” she said. “Keep him out of trouble—or don’t, depending on your mood.”

And with that, she was gone, leaving behind the scent of lipstick and smoke… and a boy who couldn’t stop blushing.

 

* * *
 

It had become a bit of a habit—innocent enough on the surface.

Colleen subscribed to half a dozen home and fashion catalogs. They’d arrive in neat, glossy stacks each week, crammed into the brass mail slot with a satisfying clatter. Ethan, being a dutiful child, often fetched them from the hallway floor and set them in the basket near her chair. Sometimes he even pre-sorted them, if he was feeling extra helpful.

But there was one catalog that always slowed him down.

It wasn’t risqué, exactly. Just… suggestive. Jezebel’s Intimate Apparel for Modern Ladies. One of those half-practical, half-elegant mailers featuring exotic waist cinchers, vintage-style corsets, girdles, bullet bras, and silky slips in dreamy pastels. The women in the photos all looked serene and mildly smug, like they’d just put a roast in the oven and casually remembered they were beautiful.

Ethan told himself he was curious about the designs—the cuts, the fabrics, the colors. After all, Colleen often asked his opinion when she was working on a dress, didn’t she? And several of the outfits in their line-up featured his designs. He was supposed to know these things, so it was good practice. Like homework.

But he always lingered way too long even for his own liking.

He’d perch on the arm of the settee when no one was around, pretending to thumb through the catalog casually. But his eyes lingered. The long legs. The high waists. The immense gravity-defying bosoms. The little bows that served no function. The suggestion of mystery beneath every panel of satin, every shadow, every crevice in every pair of panties.

One page showed a model leaning coyly against a vanity, playing with the top of her stocking as she adjusted her garter belt. Ethan’s fingers trembled as he turned the page. Another model wearing a matching lavender bra and panty set, had her hands behind her back, presumably fastening her bra strap, her back arched a bit much to be realistic, serving no other purpose but to point her generous decolletage skyward.

He wasn’t sure what stirred in him—desire, maybe, or envy, or something more tangled. He imagined himself in that pose. Wearing that set. Being looked at—maybe even being her.

Then it came, the sensation at the base of his spine, then a bit of squirming down below, then that alarmingly delightful tingling under his skirt and panties. He adjusted his position, switching from crossing one leg over the other, savoring the feeling as it grew. And grew.

He didn’t notice the creak of the stairs until it was too late.

Colleen, coming down with a basket of mended skirts and blouses, stopped in the archway.

“Oh,” she said lightly. “Getting a head start on your Christmas list?”

Ethan jumped to his feet, fumbling the catalog closed, dropping it entirely in the process. It landed at her feet—open to the exact page he hadn’t wanted her to see.

Hands clasped over the front of his apron, cheeks red hot, he stammered: “I—I was just—”

She crouched, picked it up, and glanced at the page.

“Mmm,” she mused. “Nice color. That shade of lavender’s very flattering on pale skin.”

She looked at him. Not accusing. Not amused. Just… knowing.

“I’ll leave this here,” she said, placing it neatly on the arm of the chair. “You can finish your research later.”

And then she was gone.

Ethan sat down again, shakily. He didn’t dare touch the catalog again that day.

But that night, he dreamed of pale mature women with immense gravity defying bosoms ensconced in lavender satin… and the soft brush of lace across his breasts.

 

* * *
 

It was a Tuesday—dull and gray and drizzly, the kind of day when even the fluorescent lights in the school hallways felt tired. Ethan was walking toward homeroom, head down, books hugged to his chest, trying not to let the clunk of his shoes echo too loudly.

He wasn’t in anything unusual—just his regular clothes. Slacks, button-down shirt, sweater vest. Brown loafers. Scruffy hair. Nothing that would attract attention. Which was exactly the way he liked it when he wasn’t at home doing chores, or… being Emily.

But lately, something had shifted.

He’d started to notice things.

Not in the way the other boys did—not in the locker-room snickers or whispered comparisons. Ethan’s attention was quiet. Detail-focused. Watching the girls had become a sort of habit—harmless, he told himself. Just curiosity. Okay, maybe a bit of an obsession.

Like the way Lucy Carruthers’s twin ponytails bounced when she walked, tied with ribbons that matched her socks. And how her bangs brushed her eyelashes just so.

Or how Claire Madison crossed her legs when she sat and smoothed out her pleated skirt—absently, instinctively—to hide the tops of her stockings, all without breaking her sentence.

Or how Vanessa Brightwell often wore stretchy tops so snug that her budding breasts were evident.

Or how Jennifer Walker’s breasts were as small as his own, and—sometimes, under certain tops, and if you looked hard enough—she didn’t wear a bra.

Or how half of the girls wore blouses so thin their bra straps were barely—and daringly—visible.

He watched their ease, their rhythm. The way their hips swayed when they walked… the way they swept their skirts under their bottoms when they sat down… how easily they managed their purses and all of the accoutrements that came with them. And most important, how they seemed to belong to their bodies, to their space, without question.

And he wondered.

Do I want to hold their hands? Touch their breasts? Their bottoms? That place… in between their legs?

Or wear what they’re wearing? And do what they’re doing? Maybe even be one of them?

He caught his reflection in the trophy case glass—soft features, long lashes, sweater vest pulled tight across a frame that was starting to narrow at the waist.

Would I fit in, if I dressed like them every day? What would they say? Would they laugh? Would they let me join in? Would they chase me away?

At lunch, he sat alone with his sandwich, pretending to read. Across the cafeteria, the girls had clustered near the vending machines. One was fixing her headband in the reflection of the metal. Another adjusted her skirt, tugging it gently at the hips. One dug through her purse, her knees bent in a perfect pigeon-toed pose, entirely unconscious of how graceful she looked.

Ethan swallowed hard.

He didn’t feel jealous. Not quite. But there was something in him that ached at the sight. A want that had no clear name.

He had to wait for his body to calm down lest his “want” became public when he stood up. And even then he pressed his books over the front of his pants, just in case.

That night, while brushing his hair at his vanity—Colleen had called it his vanity, as if all boys had a vanity—he stared at himself in the mirror.

The pale skin. The shy posture. The whisper of gloss still lingering from the evening’s “practice.”

And he whispered aloud, just to hear the words:

“Sometimes… I think… I actually do want… to be one of them. Or at least be with them”

The truth eluded him. Just out of his grasp.

And it didn’t go away.

 

* * *
 

Sometimes it happened at the most inconvenient of times. Like when he was in homeroom and watching his teacher, Mrs. Campbell as she went about her duties, making announcements, passing out schedules, preparing the students for their day.

She was an attractive woman, fit, buxom, and classically stylish, never trendy. Ethan admired her taste in clothes, the sheath dresses, the tailored blouse and skirt combinations, and occasional the A-line frock. But it was difficult to overlook the body that wore the clothes, her large, buoyant breasts, and that round, Rubenesque (a word he’d learned in art class) posterior that moved so well with her womanly waist and swaying hips. More often than not, Ethan found himself mesmerized by her presence, his thoughts wandering... going places they'd only recently discovered.

The fact that Mrs. Campbell knew his little secret, knew all about Emily and had, in fact, seen him in his girlish things, modeling them at the arts and crafts fair—she’d even bought one of the dresses he’d worn—all of that added to the excitement he felt when he was in her presence. It used to be that all he had to do was walk into homeroom and see her standing at the chalkboard, or sitting at her desk, leaning forward as she spoke to another student, to get him excited. But now they shared something special—intimate—perhaps even taboo. And along with that was the occasional wink, that crooked smile, or a raised eyebrow when she called on him to give an answer—the excitement of shared secrets—and he’d find himself unable to stand up for fear of giving himself away.

His favorite thing was how, perhaps once a week after the bell rang and the other students packed up to leave, she’d ask him to stay for a moment, just to check on how things were going.

“So, how’s your mother?” she’d coo with a knowing smirk. “Has she been keeping you busy, doing your chores, washing dishes… trying on pretty clothes?”

He would blush and stammer a reply, and she would ask a few more embarrassing questions, or make the occasional suggestive comment, and grin to see him struggle to keep his composure.

“Your Auntie Penelope and I had lunch last week and we were talking about you—and do you know what we decided? We both think you ought to wear one of your sweet little dresses to school. Doesn’t that sound amazing? I’m sure the other children would understand. I know the other teachers would. It would certainly make our day brighter.”

His teacher’s eyes always twinkled when she teased him like this, and as embarrassing as it was… he actually kind of enjoyed it. To have this beautiful, intelligent and formidable woman talk to him so, to be in on his covert life and to be so playful, yet safe with him, that was so thrilling, so exhilarating, he almost couldn’t stand it. It had become a little game for them, a flirtatious puppy love affair between student and teacher that would leave him breathless and trembling and having to carry his books over the front of his trousers all the way home.

 

* * *
 

There was something quietly dreadful about standing on the little pedestal in Colleen’s sewing room.

He knew it was supposed to be dignified—like a model being fitted for something grand. He’d seen drawings of girls in big crinoline skirts on raised platforms, surrounded by bolts of fabric and ribbons, their arms slightly out, their mothers pinning hems and muttering about sleeve length.

Ethan’s version was… more personal.

He stood barefoot on the round stool, wearing only his panties and a padded training bra—white lace with a little rosette between the cups—standard attire for a typical modeling session in the Martin house. His arms were half-raised, hands dangling girlishly as the wrists, and Colleen was pinning darts into the muslin mock-up of a bodice that she’d designed “just to test a new pattern.” She had a tape measure around her neck and a pencil behind her ear.

The room smelled like steam, starch, and the faintest trace of her perfume.

He tried to focus on the pins. On the mirror. On anything except the fact that her hands kept brushing his waist. His belly. The undersides of his arms. The small of his back… and occasionally his pantied bottom. Each touch made him flinch, not because it hurt, but because—

He felt it happening.

The telltale stir. The upward pulse. The dreadful, traitorous twitch.

Not here.

Not now.

Please, not in front of her.

He clenched his legs together, praying the effort would cover the betrayal. He didn’t dare look down.

Colleen straightened, holding the tape measure in front of her like a lasso. “Okay, my love, now let me wrap this around your belly…”

But Ethan couldn’t. The thought of her touch so dangerously close to… down there… was too much.

“I—I don’t feel so good,” he mumbled, hopping down from the stool a bit too fast. “Sorry—I need a minute. Just—just a minute.”

He bolted from the room without waiting for permission, leaving her standing mid-stitch, a bit of thread dangling from her fingers, the discarded muslin fluttering to the floor.

He locked himself in the bathroom and sat on the edge of the tub, clutching his knees and trembling.

He looked down, and there it was, poking up under the thin material of his panties, like a little pet eager for attention.

It was a good ten minutes before he could come out.

When he returned, he’d put on a robe over his undies. His face was flushed and he breathed like he’d just run a race.

“I’m okay now,” he said quietly. “Sorry. Can I go to my room for a while?”

Colleen didn’t scold. Didn’t tease. She just smiled that same knowing smile.

“Sure, go ahead, honey,” she said gently. “And Ethan—” she touched him on the shoulder, smiling warmly— “you’re fine, darling. There is nothing to worry about.”

And she didn't bring it up again. Even after supper. It was as if nothing had happened.

Which somehow made it worse.

 

* * *
 

Emily’s room—his room, when Colleen said so—was always just a little too pretty.

The lace curtains. The quilt with embroidered roses. The small vanity with a powder puff and his collection of jewelry and perfume and lip gloss. The dolls on shelves. Every part of the space whispered girl, even the air, which always smelled faintly of talcum and sachet.

Ethan didn’t always sleep there. Only sometimes—when Colleen said it suited her schedule, or when Dani was visiting, or when the sheets on his own bed were “in the wash.”

He never argued. But he always hesitated.

Especially now.

That night he was in one of his newer nightie sets—a peach-colored nylon top with thin, ribbon-like straps and matching panties with little frills around the legs. He hadn’t asked for them. They’d simply appeared in his drawer after a “fitting day,” and Colleen had said, “You’ll sleep softer in these, my love. Boys your age need their rest.”

It looked a little too much like the nighties he’d seen in his mother’s mail order catalogs. The fabric was slippery. Too slippery. It slinked over his skin like it was trying to tell him secrets.

He hated the fact that he loved it.

He pulled the covers up to his chest and tried to think about baseball. Or math. Or anything that wouldn’t make him feel…

But it didn’t help.

That night, his dreams were soft and strange. Shadows of lace and warmth, hands that adjusted straps or touched the waistband of his panties… or the whispered compliments, voices he couldn’t quite place murmuring, “Such a good girl…” and “Just hold still, darling…”

When he woke up, the sheets were damp.

He gasped.

His face went hot.

Did I just wet the bed?

He peeled the covers back slowly, trembling, afraid of what he’d see. His panties clung to his body, sticky and damp in a way that made him feel filthy. Miserable. And excited.

He crept out of bed and stripped quickly, stuffing the stained sheets and nightie into the hamper before anyone could notice. He slipped into his old bedroom, changed into his boy pajamas—flannel, baggy, neutral—and curled up in the corner of his Ethan bed, pressing his pillow over his head.

What is happening to me?

And worse: What if she finds out?

 

* * *
 

Some days were worse than others.

Those were the days when everything felt too much—the softness of the fabrics, the light tap of his low-heeled shoes on the hardwood, the rustle of petticoats, the clink of dishes as he washed them in the sink, wearing one of his dressier aprons with ruffles on the edge and embroidery that read “Bless This Mess.”

He used to dread doing his chores. But lately, they’d taken on… a new feeling.

Standing in the warm kitchen, sleeves rolled, apron tight, Ethan would lose himself in the rhythm. Wipe, rinse, place on the drying rack. The hot water stung his fingers just a little. The steam warmed his neck and his cheeks. The hem of his dress would sway against the backs of his legs as he moved. The elastic of his panties hugging tightly around his thigh.

Sometimes he’d glance down and catch sight of his reflection in the toaster’s chrome finish: the bra strap peeking under his dress. The curve of his waist. The way he was biting his lip without realizing it.

And beneath it all—he could feel it. That sensation. Arousal, thick and constant, hidden by layers of fabric and apron ties.

He didn’t want to enjoy it. But he did.

Worse—he realized that the very act of being told what to do made him feel this way:

When he arrived home from school and found his mother had set out a cupcake for him, along with a handwritten list of chores decorated with little hearts, and a reminder to “Have fun!”—all in red ink.

When Colleen called from the other room, “Emily, don’t forget the corners!”

When, after kissing his lips, she raised her eyebrow and said, “Lip balm, please.”

When Penelope lorded over him whenever he scrubbed her floors; or rang her little bell and clucked her tongue: “Hurry up, darling! Our guests need more tea and petit fours—”

When Auntie Vivian would scold him: “Elbows up, Emily! Don’t slouch when you sit at the piano—grace begins in posture!”

When Eleanor ordered him to walk this way or pose that way during a photo session for her newest brochure.

When his mother would drag him to Joanne’s and he’d end up having to talk about their latest sewing projects while other customers passed by and smiled.

In all of these predicaments Ethan would feel that flutter in between his thighs. That swelling. That rising… excitement… and pleasure.

It made him sick with guilt. Oddly, it also made his duties and responsibilities feel more important.

As if he were earning the feelings that made him so light-headed. Or maybe being punished by them.

He wasn’t sure which was worse.

 

* * *
 

He tried to hide it. Truly, he did.

He avoided mirrors. Wore extra layers. Kept his hands firmly at his sides whenever someone looked at him too long.

But mothers—and aunties—noticed things.

Colleen was sipping her coffee at the kitchen table one morning, flipping through the newspaper while Penelope finished off her breakfast, making yummy noises and sighing with epicurean delight. Ethan stood nearby, drying the breakfast dishes. He was wearing a simple blue gingham dress with a crisp white apron, and frilly ankle socks and his rubber cleaning slippers. Under his skirt he wore a petticoat—just in case.

A good thing, too, because just as he’d feared, he was erect and tingling… and weak-kneed with delight. It had been that way all morning, from the moment he’d pulled on his panties, all through his chores. It had gotten stiff and it stayed stiff during the making of the beds, the sorting of laundry, the preparation and presentation of breakfast, and even breakfast itself.

And now, in front of his mother and his adopted aunt, hidden beneath his petticoat and flared skirt, it stood proud and firm and on the verge of making a mess of things. Literally.

The good news was that nothing showed. Not down there, thankfully. The bad news was, anyone with any sense could tell that something was up just by looking at his face and the way he was acting.

Ethan tried his best to calm himself, to relax and let things go back to normal—whatever that was. But for all of his twitching and squirming and swaying about, he couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t do anything to stop it. It was as if that arrogant, stubborn boyish part of him had a mind all its own, declaring in no uncertain terms, I’m doing what I do, and you can’t stop me!

Let me get through this, the cross-dressed boy thought desperately. He rubbed the plate in his hands harder and harder with his dish towel. Don’t do anything stupid. Just get through—

“You’ve had a glow about you lately,” Colleen murmured without looking up.

Ethan nearly dropped the plate.

Penelope, seated across from her with a cinnamon roll and a smirk, added, “Quite right. He’s been blushing ever since last Thursday. I do hope it’s not anemia.”

“An iron deficiency, maybe?”

“Is he taking his vitamins?”

Colleen finally looked up. “Are you taking your vitamins, sweetie?”

“I’m fine,” Ethan mumbled, clutching the towel. “Just warm.”

“Mmm,” Penelope said, licking icing from her thumb. “So it has nothing to do with… say, hormones?”

He went crimson.

Colleen watched him carefully, her gaze soft but pointed.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, sweetheart. All boys your age go through it.”

Ethan didn’t know whether to cry, faint, or run screaming out the back door.

Instead, he turned toward the sink and whispered, “I’m done with the dishes.”

Neither woman said anything.

But he felt their eyes on his back. And worse… he felt his own smile, hidden under the heat of his blush.

 

* * *
 

That night, he sat on the edge of his bed, wearing his softest robe and a pair of fuzzy slippers Colleen had bought him “because they matched the trim on your dressing gown.”

His panties were down around his ankles, and he was staring at his withered self, recovering from a vigorous session of self-pleasuring. A tissue filled with pearlescent goo laid on the bed next to him.

What’s wrong with me?

He’d asked himself that question a hundred times. And each time, the answer was more confusing. He liked being a boy. And he liked pretending to be a girl. He liked being Ethan. And Emily. He liked chores, and being told to do them... and getting compliments for a job well done. He also enjoyed being told he looked nice. And pretty. And sometimes even… radiant.

He liked wearing things that made him feel small.

And he hated that he liked it.

His body didn’t care. It kept reacting. Kept betraying him at the worst of times. Even now, sitting still in the quiet of his room, in the afterglow of a moment of adolescent ecstasy, he could feel the faint tingle return.

And it twitched.

Not again! Already? I thought I just got rid of this feeling.

He buried his face in his hands.

I wish someone would explain this. I wish someone would tell me I’m not a freak.

He was about to start again when there was a knock at the door.

“Ethan?” Colleen’s voice, soft. “Can I come in?”

He did what any red-blooded boy would do in his situation—he panicked. He reached down to pull his panties up, but in the struggle he fumbled and they slid off his feet, along with his slippers.

“Ethan, baby, are you all right?”

He quickly kicked everything under the bed, tossed the sticky tissue in the trash and covered himself with his robe.

“…Yeah,” he said after a pause. “Um, you can come in… I guess…”

His mother stepped in, leaving the door open behind her.

“You’ve been so quiet today, ever since breakfast.” She knelt down before him, placing her hands his knees, looking him in the eye. “Are you all right, sweetie? You look flushed.”

Ethan bit his lip. She’s so close. Too close. Her hands… her eyes… too close. She’s going to see it… and then she’ll know… and I’ll just die!

“Okay then.” Colleen pointedly ignored the wastebasket and its contents. “Anything you want to tell me?”

“Not really. Just… I’ve been thinking.”

Another pause. He could tell something caught her attention, but what?

“I’ve been thinking, too,” she said. “I think you and I need to have a little talk.”

His pulse raised—as did that little traitor under his robe.

“Okay—about what?”

Colleen pursed her lips. “Well, this for one thing.”

She reached down and swept up the discarded panties from their hiding place under the bed, dangling them on one finger. A crooked smile curled the corner of her mouth and a single accusatory eyebrow raised.

Ethan stared weakly at the viscous, milky-white clump clinging to the nylon and lace, and he swallowed hard.

My life is over, he thought.

 

* * *
 

The kitchen smelled of coffee and simmering tomato sauce. Sunlight streamed through the curtains, splashing the floral linoleum floor with gold.

Colleen leaned her elbows on the counter, twisting a dish towel in her hands, eyes darting toward the closed doorway down the hall. Her lips pressed tight as if she were holding back words—or maybe tears.

Across from her, DeeDee balanced on a stool, legs crossed, unlit cigarette bobbing at the corner of her mouth. Her cat-eye glasses glinted, and her hair was swept up in one of her trademark scarves, a few dark locks slipping loose as if even her hair refused to be tamed.

“Come on, Collie, spit it out,” she said. “Something’s up. I haven’t seen you this upset since that damned ex-husband of yours—”

“It’s Ethan, Dee!” Colleen finally exhaled. “I’ve been noticing certain… things. About him. And I don’t know what to do.”

DeeDee arched a brow. “He’s been digging through your closet and tryin’ on your clothes again? Doesn’t he have enough of his own stuff to—”

“No, it’s not that. Although that too.”

Colleen’s cheeks flushed pink. She twisted the towel tighter.

“It’s… boy things. You know… private things.” She looked almost embarrassed at her own awkwardness. “He’s been hiding in his room more. And when he’s in some of Emily’s dresses, especially her… well, his… undies, he sometimes looks… worried. He keeps turning away from me. Like he’s afraid something might… show.”

DeeDee snorted. “You mean he’s sproutin’ a tent in his knickers?”

“DEEDEE!” Colleen slapped the towel against her sister’s arm, but a nervous giggle slipped out. “You don’t have to put it like that!”

She sighed. “But, yes. What you just said.”

DeeDee shrugged, leaning back. “Well, that’s what it is. Boys hit thirteen, and suddenly their pecker’s pointin’ due north half the day. What, you think you invented puberty?”

Colleen dropped the towel and buried her face in her hands. “It’s not funny. I keep finding… little stains in his laundry. And the sheets sometimes. And his trash can is always filled with—these sticky tissues. More than once I almost caught him…” She gasped. “Oh God, I’m dying here.”

DeeDee frowned. “He’s uh, not doing it in here, is he?”

“Doing what? What, you mean… here? In the kitchen?” Colleen’s eyes went wide. “Dee, why would you even say that?”

“Well, guys do the weirdest things sometimes. We had this old dude down at the shop… he spent way too much time in the grease pit, and one day during lunch break I caught him—”

“Please, DeeDee, this is Ethan we’re talking about.” Colleen shook her head. “Not one of those weird old men at your garage!”

“Sorry, Collie. I was just sayin’.” DeeDee patted her sister’s arm. “You’re right. He’s a good boy. But he is a boy, not the girl you want him to be. A normal, red blooded boy. Even if he’s wearing a slip and a bra half the time. And boy’s bodies do what they do.”

“I know,” Colleen said softly. “And I knew this day would come, but… I don’t know how to talk to him about this. He’s so shy about it. I tried to bring it up last night. I practically caught him in the act, and I thought I could drag it out of him… get him to talk about it. You know how easy he is to get to do things—”

“And?”

“I wound up offering him a plate of snickerdoodles instead.”

DeeDee grinned. “And let me guess, he bolted like a scalded cat.”

“He hid in the closet and wouldn’t come out until I left.” Colleen groaned. “Oh DeeDee, I just… I don’t want him thinking he’s dirty. Or wrong. Or that he can’t be Emily if he wants to. But I don’t want him ending up like his father…”

DeeDee blew out an exaggerated sigh. “Alright, fine. Lemme handle it. I’ll talk to him.”

Colleen’s eyes widened. “Dee… are you sure?”

DeeDee cracked her knuckles. “Of course. Kid’s my nephew. I’m around men all the time. And I’ve been around plenty of teenage boys—and teenage girls, Lord help me. I’ll keep it real simple: bodies get frisky, sometimes there’s a mess, don’t freak out, nobody dies.”

Colleen winced. “Maybe not quite that simple.”

“Trust me, Sissy. I got this.” DeeDee grinned. “It’s a pecker, not a loaded gun. Though I guess it’s got the same effect if it goes off at the wrong time.”

 

* * *
 

Ethan lingered in the hallway, listening to the clatter of pans and the low murmur of women’s voices. Just a little while earlier he’d been upstairs trying on the baby blue sundress he and his mother made for Emily—along with one of his new blonde wigs—and the vision in the mirror had left him flushing bright red, feeling something tight and urgent pressing beneath his skirt. He’d hurried to the bathroom just in time to keep from making another mess in his panties.

I wish my body would just stop… doing that. Especially when I’m pretending to be Emily. At night when I’m in bed… it’s not terrible… it feels … kind of great. He rolled his eyes and sighed. But when I’m around Mom and trying on all those clothes for her it’s just so… weird. And embarrassing!

Now, wearing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, his dark brown hair mussed and disheveled, he was half hoping to sneak past the kitchen when he heard the door slam open and DeeDee bark out his name.

“Hey, kiddo. Just the guy I’m lookin’ for. Come in here and sit your cute little butt down.”

Ethan froze. “Aunt DeeDee…?”

He entered the kitchen just in time to see his mother rush out the back door. Why was everybody acting so strange?

DeeDee pointed at the chair. “Sit. We’re talkin’ turkey.”

Ethan sank into the seat as if hoping it would swallow him whole.

DeeDee planted her elbows on the table and leaned forward, peering over her cat-eye glasses, her voice dropping into an exaggerated stage whisper.

“So. Your wiener’s been goin’ wacko, huh?”

Ethan’s entire face turned the shade of a ripe tomato. “Aunt DeeDee!”

“Oh, don’t Aunt DeeDee me,” she said, waving off his protests. “I been your age, little mister. I know you find that hard to believe, but I was a dumb kid, too. I’ve seen it all. Hormones are the worst. They’re like fireworks this time of your life. One minute you’re thinkin’ about comic books, next minute—BAM!!!”

Ethan nearly jumped out of his chair as she suddenly clapped her hands together.

DeeDee leaned closer. “Next minute, you’re springin’ a flagpole in your shorts. Or your panties. Don’t matter. The thing is, it’s normal. All guys go through this. Every damned one of them. Except for the panty part, I guess.”

Ethan slapped his hands over his ears. “LA-LA-LA-LA—”

DeeDee rolled her eyes. “Hey, I’m bein’ serious. Sometimes it happens in the morning. Sometimes at night. Sometimes because a breeze blew funny. You might wake up and—whoops, Houston, we have a problem. It’s just your body practicin’ for adulthood.” She gave him a little wink. “There’s a reason they call it a joy-stick, ya know.”

Ethan groaned into his hands.

At that exact moment, Dani barged into the kitchen, soccer ball tucked under one arm.

“Hey Ethan, wanna—”

She skidded to a halt, eyes flicking from Ethan’s mortified face to her mother’s odd expression.

DeeDee opened her mouth, finger raised. “So, the thing about wet dreams is—”

Dani yelped.

“NOPE. Nope nope nope. Not listening! Not listening! I am outta here!”

She dropped her soccer ball and bolted back through the doorway. A second later, they heard the slam of the screen door.

DeeDee stared after her, pulling her cigarette from behind her ear and sticking it in between her lips. “Wow. Never seen her act like that before.”

She looked back at Ethan, whose face was nearly purple.

“Alright, alright. Look, maybe I’m… not so good at this soft-and-gentle crap.”

Ethan peeked between his fingers.

DeeDee leaned back, her voice lowering. “See, buddy, I’ve been there. Done that. Well, actually, I had… that… done to me. I wish somebody’d talked to me about this kinda stuff when I was your age. About all this. About… consequences.”

Ethan blinked, curiosity wrestling with embarrassment.

DeeDee stared into space. “I got pregnant with Dani when I was sixteen. Not much older than you, if ya think about it. Didn’t even finish junior year. Her dad was some hotshot mechanic who thought he was James Dean. Don’t know if I was in love… I was in lust, for sure. Anyway, soon as I told him about the baby, he peeled outta town so fast he left tire marks all the way down the interstate.”

She gave a little huff of laughter, eyes suddenly wet. “I could’ve… I dunno. Given Dani up. Some wanted me to… you know, abort her. But I couldn’t. She’s my girl. Always was, always will be. Even if she is a loudmouth skateboardin’ soccer punk. Goddammit. So I dropped out, had her, started changin’ oil at my uncle’s garage. Then figured if I was gonna get greasy for a livin’, I might as well own the joint. Uncle Liam taught me everything he knew, I worked my ass off and proved myself, he made me partner. I got the shop when he passed. Been livin’ happily ever after since.”

She wiped her eyes roughly with her palm. “I don’t trust men much. But I ain’t afraid of ‘em either. And I don’t want you bein’ afraid of your body. Or thinkin’ there’s somethin’ wrong with ya ‘cause you like girly things but still get… y’know… the stiffies.”

Ethan swallowed hard, eyes shining. “Aunt DeeDee… I’m sorry.”

DeeDee snorted, then wiped her eyes again. “What the hell you apologizin’ for? You didn’t knock me up. I did that all by myself. Well, with a little help from that fake James Dean.”

Ethan let out a shocked laugh that turned into a hiccup. DeeDee cracked a smile and gave his shoulder a squeeze.

“Listen. You got questions? You ask me. Or your mom. Or your crazy Auntie Penelope. Even Aunt Vivian.” She looked like she tasted something bad. “Viv’s a real bee-otch sometimes, but she’s smart and she’d do anything for you. We all would. We’ll shoot ya straight. Okay?”

“Okay.” Ethan nodded slowly. “So, um… I got a question.”

“Yeah?”

“Who’s James Dean?”

DeeDee stared at him. “After all this talkin’, that’s your question?” She grabbed him and gave him a hug so tight he was afraid he’d suffocate. “You got a lot to learn, little mister! But you’re gonna be okay.”

 

* * *
 

Later that afternoon, Colleen stood in Ethan’s doorway, hand lightly resting on the knob. Ethan was perched on his bed, fidgeting with the bottom of his T-shirt.

“Sweetheart?” Colleen said softly. “Can I come in?”

Ethan nodded, not looking up.

She sat beside him, smoothing the quilt. She smelled like fabric softener and vanilla lotion. He felt his whole body relax. He was safe.

After a couple of minutes, Ethan whispered, “Aunt DeeDee… talked to me a while ago.”

Colleen winced. “Oh God. I’m afraid to ask how that went.”

“She was… loud. And kind of gross. But… I think she meant well.”

Colleen chuckled despite herself. “That’s Aunt DeeDee. Subtle as a jackhammer.”

Ethan swallowed. “Mom… is it normal? For… stuff to happen? Even when I’m dressed as Emily?”

Colleen gently cupped his cheek. “Baby, it’s more than normal. It’s good. Your body’s figuring things out. And just because you love wearing pretty dresses or feel happy as Emily… doesn’t mean you’re not still a boy. Or that you have to choose one thing or the other right this second.”

Ethan frowned. “But… I can’t make it stop… or go. It’s like it has a mind of its own.”

Colleen giggled. “I’ve heard that before.”

The flustered boy sighed. “But… what if people see? Or… or if something… pokes up… under a skirt or a dress? I never know when it’s gonna...”

Colleen’s cheeks went pink, but she pressed on bravely. “That’s why I was thinking… maybe we should get you some foundation garments. Panty girdles, little shapers… things that help keep everything smooth and hidden.”

His thoughts went directly to the memory of his mother’s lingerie catalogs… and the silky white girdles hanging from a rack at Penelope’s house. Those had seemed so complicated, so exotic—and also like medieval torture devices.

“Panty… girdles?” he echoed weakly.

“Mmm-hmm. And…” She rummaged in a shopping bag at her feet and pulled out a pink and white paper box.

Ethan’s eyes grew so wide they nearly popped out of his head. “Um… what are those for?”

Colleen stifled a giggle. “Those are feminine pads, honey. For your panties. Women and girls wear them certain times of the month. You know, like when I get the cramps sometimes.”

Ethan’s mouth worked soundlessly. “But… I’m not a real—I mean, I don’t have… periods….”

“No, but there have been times when you leaked a little bit, right? You know, in your panties… and at night… in the bed.”

“Mom!”

“Well, it happens. Mercy sakes, I’ve had to clean up after you enough.”

“Mom, please stop talking!”

Colleen’s eyes lit up and she failed miserably at repressing her smile. “Well, it’s true. It happens to everybody… to girls and ladies … and special little boys. Like you.”

Ethan put his hands over his eyes. “Oh gosh, why does everything have to be so complicated?”

“That’s just life, baby. And you have to be prepared. So sometimes being Emily means carrying things like this, okay? Just in case. Why do you think us ladies keep our purses close? You never know when a friend might need help—or if you want to be prepared in case you have an… accident… so nobody suspects anything.”

Ethan moaned. “Anything else I need to know? Please say no.”

Colleen laughed. “Well, if you ever need a little help… you know, upstairs… you can always stick them in your bra.”

The chagrined boy fell back on the bed and buried his face in his pillow. “Mommm—”

Colleen laughed and hugged him tight. “Baby, you have so much to learn.”

The door burst open without a knock. DeeDee poked her head in, grinning.

“Hey, pole vaulter!” she hollered. “Everything smoothed out in here?”

“DEEDEE!” Colleen shrieked, throwing a pillow at her sister’s head.

Ethan groaned and pulled the blanket over his face.

DeeDee ducked the pillow, grinning. “C’mon, I’m just checkin’ in. Kid’s gotta know he’s loved. Whether he’s Ethan… or Emily… or Pinocchio with his woodie stickin’ out—.”

Colleen sighed, laughing helplessly. “Out. Out out out!”

DeeDee retreated, cackling all the way down the hall.

Colleen pulled Ethan close and kissed the top of his hair. “Just remember, sweetheart. No matter what happens, you’re ours. And your secrets will always be safe with us.”

Ethan peeked up, eyes shimmering. “Thanks, Mom.”

She hugged him again, fiercely. “Now, let’s eat some supper and get you to bed. Tomorrow we’ll go shopping. For those essentials.”

Ethan buried his face in her shoulder. “Mommm—”

From the top of the stairs DeeDee’s voice boomed: “AND DON’T FORGET MORE PADS!”

Ethan let out a muffled wail. Colleen just laughed and held him tighter, her heart so full it nearly hurt.

Next up: Mrs. Campbell Pays a Visit