I don't think I've ever forgiven my Mother for what happened next.

Walking home from school that afternoon, I'd rehearsed like a zillion different excuses, trying to figure out some argument I could use to sway Momma's judgment. Saying this would be difficult would be like calling a hurricane a slight breeze. Mom was pretty tight with Mrs Ramsey, and I knew that she was adamant about me appearing in the School Review. I'd have to be slicker than Harry Houdini if I wanted to avoid public ridicule. It was a slim chance at best, little more than a razor's edge, but it was better than none whatsoever.

Well, at least things can't get any worse, I told myself, stepping in through the front door. Famous last words, needless to say: I had absolutely no idea how bad things were about to become.

"Tracy? Is that you?" Mom's voice, drifting gaily out from the living room. My belly began to tighten up. Something was going on; her words sounded too sprite, too merry.

"Yes, Momma," I replied, dropping my satchel and kicking off my runners. I glanced longingly up the stairs, fighting down a bleak sense of foreboding. Maybe I should postpone the family conference, simply bolt for my room and lock the door.

"Could you come in here please, sweetheart?" Again, that bubbly, effervescent tone. Whatever she was feeling, it wasn't motherly pride. It sounded more like glee, the kind you hear in any playground, when the big kids gather 'round to torment some innocent scapegoat. Whatever she had in mind, it was certain to rob me of my last vestige of human dignity. She was always doing things like that. I made my way down the hall, biting my lip in anticipation of the inevitable.

Needless to say, my premonition turned out to be true. Momma was sitting in the living room entertaining a couple of guests, two women from Chamberlain Theatre Society. I knew them by sight, having appeared in a few of the Christmas pantos CTS held every year. One of them I placed as Ms Rhodes, the wardrobe mistress. The other one I couldn't pin a name to, although I had the impression she'd done the make-up for last year's show.

All three burst into spontaneous applause as I entered the room (the redhead with a knowing smirk). I paused in mid-step, feeling the blood rush to my cheeks. I glanced at Momma in rising alarm. What was going on here? Why had she invited these women over for afternoon tea?Surely she hadn't –

"So - here's our little cancan boy!!" Ms Rhodes cheered, answering my unspoken question. My jaw dropped in astonishment. They knew!! Mom had told them, told them everything. I couldn't believe this was happening, that she'd betrayed me in total disregard of my emotions. I could almost see her on the phone, eyes gleaming with malicious joy as she blurted out the news:

Hi, Jane? This is Alicia. You'll NEVER guess what's happened. Well, my son Mickey's been chosen for the School Concert! He'll be dancing the FRENCH CANCAN!! That's right, the CANCAN, just like they dance at the Moulin Rouge. Oh, yes, he'll be showing off EVERYTHING, all the way down to his pretty little PANTIES. Isn't it exciting? Come over RIGHT NOW, we have to celebrate!

My pulse accelerated in near hysteria. How many had she invited to my coming out party? There were only three now, but if I knew my Mother, I could expect a throng of blue rinse horrors within the next half hour, gossiping away loud enough to beat the band. Any hope of secrecy flew out the window the moment Mom picked up the phone, by tomorow morning everyone in Chamberlain would know. I turned to face her, heart thundering in my rib cage –
And right on cue, the doorbell rang, confirming my worst case scenario.

I was wrong in one respect: it didn't take half an hour to chalk up a full house. Within ten minutes, the living room was a mass of babbling, wild-eyed housewives. They arrived bearing vanilla tarts and strawberry shortcakes, literally bursting with venomous suburban humour. I stood to one side of Mom's art-deco coffee table, trembling with barely suppressed panic. I wanted to run away, hide in my bedroom, but she had no intention of letting me off that lightly. A life long devotee of the theatrical arts, this was her shining hour, her moment of triumph. And nothing was going to rain on her parade.

All of my carefully constructed arguments disintegrated before Momma's indomitable fervor. She deflected my pleas with a careless wave of her hand, dismissing my fears as inconsequential. I pressed on regardless, appealing the verdict in growing desperation. Again, I should have known better. It was a doomed venture from the start.

"Momma, I don't want to do this," I whimpered hopelessly, trying not to stammer my words, "everyone will make fun of me." Mom laughed her response.

"Oh, what are you so worried about? You'll make a beautiful little girl."

"But I don't wanna look like a girl, Momma!!"

"Well, it's too late to back out now, Mickey. Mrs Ramsey's already made her decision, and you're not going to let her down."

"But Momma -" I moaned, feeling roughly four years old. She was patronizing me, treating me like an infant. The way she always had, for as long as I could remember.

"You're the one who wants to be an actor," she said, effectively terminating any further discussion on the subject, "so here's your big chance. Anyway, no more long faces, sweet-heart. I've got just the thing to cheer you up."

"What do you mean?" I asked, looking 'round uneasily.

"Oh, just a little surprise," she replied ominously, then reached down beside her chair. I watched in mounting suspense, wondering what I'd missed when I'd first entered the living room, what she'd kept hidden under her seat the whole afternoon. That sense of 'bleak foreboding' suddenly leapt into overdrive.

She picked up a brightly coloured shopping bag, a garish pink monstrosity decorated with hearts and butterflies. The logo read CONTESSA LINGERIE and bore a fifties-style picture of a Merry Widow decked out in an exotic black torsolette. The room went silent as she placed it on the coffee table for all to see.

My eyes bulged from their sockets as I realized what Momma had been saving up as the Grand Finale to the afternoon's festivities. For one second the floor seemed to lurch beneath my feet. I shook my head in utter disbelief: this simply couldn't be happening. She wouldn't do this to me; wouldn't subject me to such total humiliation.

How wrong I was.

"OK, gather round everybody," Mom exclaimed, taking me by the wrist, "It's time our cancan boy tried on his costume."

"Momma, noooooooo!" I wailed as she led me to the centre of the floor. I stumbled along behind her, blushing all the way to my hairline. An urgent, feverish heat filled my tummy: she was going to undress me; strip me down to my underpants before a houseful of complete strangers. Worse than that, she was going to make me wear whatever in the shopping bag - and despite her preceding announcement, I knew it wasn't a costume. It was lingerie - bras and stockings and flimsy lace panties. I stared around in gape-mouthed shock. What was I going to do now?!

Momma's friends crowded in, eager to play with their new toy. Their hands ruffled my hair, tugged at my clothes. They were literally squealing with delight, eyes shining with feral pleasure. The walls trembled with their excited cries. This was one show they weren't going to miss. I felt surrounded, trapped, hemmed in.

"No, Momma, please no!" I begged, heart pounding in my throat, "take me up to my room! I don't everyone to see!" A rash of laughter rippled through the audience. Some of them chortled over my childish modesty, others sighed with maternal pleasure. Someone patted me affectionately on the hip: there there, baby, no need to be shy.

"Don't be silly, darling," Momma replied, pulling me toward her, "you're a little boy, no one minds seeing your panties. Now come over here and take off that sweatshirt." I gaped up at her, unable to believe what I'd just heard. Panties?! What did she mean? I wasn't a girl, I didn't wear panties. I straightened up, preparing to voice my objections at the top of my lungs - then felt her fingers plucking at my waistline.

"Nooooooooooooo!" I cried as she peeled my sweatshirt over my head and dropped it to the floor. More laughter; giggles of sheer delight, in fact. Several clapped their hands to encourage Mom to continue with my reluctant striptease. Knowing what was about to happen, I stepped away from her, only to discover my exit blocked by Ms Rhodes and several grinning conspirators. The message was clear: I wasn't going anywhere.

"All right - hold still, honey-boy," Mom told me, reaching down to unbuckle my belt, "there's nothing to feel embarrassed about, we're all mothers here. Now - let's get those pants off. You can't dance the cancan wearing jeans, can you?"

It took her exactly five seconds to remove my blue denim Levis, leaving me standing in nothing but my fresh white underwear. Gasping with shame, I tried to pull my singlet down to cover my prim, cotton briefs. The action prompted a chorus of amusement from the audience: Isn't he just the sweetest little thing, look at him trying to hide his underpants, you'd never guess he was a boy, would you?

By this time, my face was blazing the colour of a ripe tomato. Even now, decades after the event, I can still recall the breathless, gasping shame of that moment, the derisive, contemptuous laughter of my audience. That was how it seemed to me at the time; twelve year-old boys are terribly self-conscious about their bodies, particularly where strangers are concerned. Of course, none of that mattered to Momma. She and her company were oblivious to my tearful pleas; they were enjoying the spectacle far to much to consider a child's emotions.

"Let's get him out of those undies," Ms Rhodes said behind me, her high, warbling voice pregnant with excitement. Looking back over my shoulder, I saw her outstretched hands descending on me, her features radiating horrific delight. I cast an imploring glance at my mother, but found no sympathy there.

"OK, Jane, go ahead," Momma agreed, placing her hands around my slim waist, "I'll hold him for you."

"NOOOOOOO!!" I squirmed in her grasp, frantic to evade this final indignity. All to no avail: resistance was futile, my fate had been sealed the instant Mrs Rhodes decided she wanted to see me naked. She had my vest off faster than it takes to read this sentence. I squealed, dancing from foot to foot like a frightened schoolgirl. Ms Rhodes tossed the singlet into the crowd –

And then it was time for my panties.