It's often said that childhood memories are the clearest and sharpest we ever experience. This was certainly true in my case; my earliest recollections are a rich tapestry of image and emotion. In many respects, they laid the foundation for the person I would eventually become.

One memory in particular seems to have shaped my entire destiny.

It goes back a very long way, almost to the beginning. I doubt I was even five years old; all I can recall was a bright, golden summer, when each day followed the last in a never-ending limbo. A minute could last an hour, an hour could last a day, and a day frequently lasted forever. Time was a sweet, quiet afternoon drifting off into eternity.

Then something happened.

Something completely unexpected.

It started off with a mounting sense of excitement. We were going out for the evening, a trip downtown for dinner and a movie. The house bustled with activity as clothes were changed, shoes were shined and windows bolted down for the night. Decked out in our Sunday fineries, we piled into the car in a chattering mass of knees and elbows, a subtle mist of hair spray and aftershave tracking our every move. The dashboard glowed a soft, comforting yellow as we backed down the drive way, whooping and laughing and poking. Doors were locked, gears were shifted and the road swept by in a blur of street lamps.

This was a first time for me, a moment of surprise and revelation. I suppose I must've known all about restaurants and cinemas before that point, but they were things that belonged to the daytime world. Now everything had changed – the sudden flood of strobing neon practically overloaded my nervous system. Music blared from every corner, spectral colours flickered across the sidewalk. This was a fantasy land beyond anything I'd previously imagined.

Dinner flashed past with a rush of menus, waiters and neatly folded serviettes. There was no time for desert: the show started at eight and the box office was sure to be crowded if we arrived late. A small queue was just starting to form as Dad secured our tickets. Jostling our way through the lobby, we followed a uniformed usher into a darkened gallery, taking our seats just in time for the Coming Attractions.

This was one of the biggest events of my life up to that stage. We weren't just seeing a movie, we were seeing a scary movie – the kind I wasn't even allowed to watch at home. I also had some idea what it was about – my sisters had been talking all about it on the ride into town. It was set in The Olden Days, when men wore top hats and ladies wore long, bell-like dresses. There were no werewolves, vampires or demons, but there was a mad scientist who drank a potion and turned into a monster (or something). Like most kids, I loved a good fright every now and then, especially since spook-flicks were strictly off limits for me. This was shaping up to be the best night of my life.

Truth be told, it was … but not for reasons I was thinking.

The movie was far better than I'd expected. Dr Jekyll transformed into a suitably monstrous Hyde, ruthlessly terrorizing the gas-lit streets of London. Women shrieked in terror as the hideous creature descended on them; stalwart Bobbies plunged through the fog in swift pursuit. Torch-wielding mobs raged through dank urban catacombs, blood spattered across back-alley walls in a crimson shower. Needless to say, there was plenty of lurking and skulking about in cobweb-strewn passageways.

However, the best was yet to come.

Thirty minutes in, Detective Abberdine of Scotland Yard was chasing Mr. Hyde through the Whitechapel labyrinth. After several hair-raising encounters (and equally riveting escapes), the trail eventually led to a Soho den of iniquity known as The Judas Pit. Accompanied by his intrepid band of constables, Abberdine burst into the raucous music hall...

And here is where my story truly begins.

This was my very first introduction to The Cancan.

Up on the screen were eight beautiful young women, dancing with their skirts over their waists. Twirling swiftly before the camera, they whipped their petticoats from left to right, openly displaying their underwear to the audience. Black suspender stockings enhanced their slender, tapering legs, lending a sharp contrast to their glaringly white crinolines.

Shrieking with delight, the girls cantered before the footlights, turning cartwheels and handsprings to reveal their lavishly frilled panties. At one point, they spun round, flipping their dresses up at the back. Plump, round bottoms were presented to a roaring crowd, jiggling back and forth in time to the music.

I was utterly entranced by this spectacle. I sat staring up in open-mouthed astonishment. My heart raced like a trip hammer, a wave of liquid heat swept through my veins. I was literally on the edge of my seat, fingernails digging into the faux-leather arm rests. This was - without exception - the most thrilling second of my brief existence...and it altered my perceptions forever.

The image was permanently imprinted on my consciousness, preserved in deepening layers of awe. I went home that night with a thousand questions ringing through my head: who were those girls, what was the dance called? Why were they doing it, why would they flash their knickers to a room full of drunken, cheering strangers? Did they actually enjoy it? They certainly seemed to, no denying that.

We got home around ten PM, almost two hours past my regular bedtime. I should have been dead on my feet, but my mind was filled with visions of swirling petticoats. Climbing into my short cotton PJs, I replayed the scene over and over: the music, the dancing, the beautiful, smiling chorus girls. And the underwear, of course. Mostly the underwear. The panties.

They'd been deliberately showing off their panties. It was no accident, no momentary hint of satin, like when a girl goes ice-skating or country dancing. They'd been holding up their dresses on purpose, so that everyone could see their undies. On purpose. The implications left me speechless.

I fell in love with the cancan that night. It was the beginning of an affair which would span decades.

---

"A cold thrill seemed to run the length of Casey's spine as he surveyed the garish spray of satin petticoats. In a few minutes, he'd be zipped up into this - this party dress – and sent out on stage to make a public spectacle of himself. It wasn't fair! Why was she doing this to him? Hovering at the brink of hysteria, Casey looked up at his teacher, his eyes huge and moist and imploring: "Miss Deane, I can't do it, I just CAN'T!! I - I'm a BOY, not a girl!!!'"

Clocking in at just over 19,000 words, this special collected edition features classic tales of pretty young men sampling the delights of women's lingerie. Written in the racy, fast-paced style of the classic pulp era, Lace and Garters! is a must-read for devotees of TG literature.

---

Being chosen for a pivotal role is an honor in any production, even one so humble as Chamberlain Academy's school concert. I should have felt flattered; should, in fact, have felt ecstatic. Oddly enough, the only thing I felt was confusion. Confusion bordering on anxiety. And that was the strangest part, at least at first.

I've been treading the floorboards since my sixth birthday. I've appeared in children's pantomimes, dance recitals, and mannequin parades without number. Stage fright never entered into the equation, I was a decorated veteran of the stage. No, something else was fueling my apprehension. They'd given me no choice in the matter. I'd been conscripted, press-ganged into service. And where was the honor in that?

I reasoned initially that Ms Ramsey had chosen me for my background in dance and movement, which theoretically gave me an advantage over all the other boys in the dance club. But the end of the day, it was only a slight advantage. And that's why her choice seemed so baffling. There were at least three other boys who could have taken the part. Syd Chambers had studied classical ballet. Scott Bowers was the district ballroom champion, and Johnny Slash had won medals at the state finals. All three were eminently suited for the role.

Of course, Ms Ramsey wouldn't have chosen any of them; in point of fact, they'd never even been in the running. At the end of the day, they just didn't look right. It had to be me, because nobody else could possibly fulfill the requirements. The reason should have been obvious, blatantly obvious in fact, but I didn't care to admit it to myself at the time. Couldn't admit it to myself, might be more accurate. As it was, I was utterly mortified when I heard I'd be playing a girl's part in the school production.

They were presenting an Olde Tyme Music Hall at the end of August, a musical extravaganza which seemed to incorporate half the school. The show featured a Moulin Rouge number harkening back to the nightclubs and cabarets of nineteenth century Paris, slated to be the highlight of the production. Chamberlain Academy was renowned for its theater department, and no expense had been spared in terms of costume, lighting and set design. Ms Ramsey had promised the local press a riveting performance of spectacular proportions, and nothing would prevent her from keeping her word. Only problem was: Chamberlain Academy was an all-boy's school.

And I was the only one capable of dancing the French Cancan.

"The cancan? Ms Ramsey…I'm a boy."

I felt my cheeks tingling with embarrassment. My voice quavered with dismay; she couldn't be serious, couldn't expect me to humiliate myself in front of the entire school. My head spun with a feverish blend of shame and excitement. I knew Ms Ramsey extremely well, she'd been teaching me since the fourth grade. She would force me to go through with this, overriding my protests without a second thought. I could be certain of that much at least.

"Really? I hadn't noticed," she replied, smiling to herself, "all the same, I'm afraid there's really no alternative."

I was standing by her desk in the staffroom, patiently attempting to negotiate a role of lesser importance, one which didn't involve wearing a dress and about ten pounds of petticoats. Ms Ramsey was sitting in her computer chair, absently drinking a coffee. Nestles' cafe au lait; all of France in a cup.

"Anyway," she continued offhand, "I've already spoken to your Mother, and she's given her OK. Seemed rather pleased by the idea, as a matter of fact."

Yes, I could well imagine my Momma laughing down the phone at that one. She'd always had a rather sadistic sense of humor where her son was concerned. Worse still, she and Ms R were as thick as thieves, having worked together on half a dozen local productions. I decided to press on despite the hopelessness of the situation. There was too much at stake to give in without a fight.

"I can't do it, Mrs Ramsey. It's a girl's dance. Everyone will laugh at me."

"No, I doubt that very much," she answered, calmly sipping from her Starbucks mug, "Mikki, it may have escaped your attention, but half the cast will be dolled up as women. Most of your friends are in the chorus, they'll all be wearing dresses in the Moulin Rouge sketch."

"This is different," I replied, knowing that I'd be doing the cancan en solo. The rest of the guys would just be standing in the background, playing bar maids and waiters. It wasn't as if they had to raise their skirts and show off their underwear to like half the town. We weren't discussing the Macarena here. This was the cancan, one of the most celebrated (and notorious) routines of the modern era. It would require weeks of training and rehearsal to master; weeks at the very least. Visions of frilly white panties and long black stockings filled my head.

"I guess you're right," Ms Ramsey agreed reasonably enough, "the cancan's a tricky and rather complex number. That's why I chose you. We need the best, and you're the one, Mikki. You should feel honored."

Honored, I thought ruefully. This was going to ruin my life. I could already hear the jeers and catcalls that would follow me for the rest of the year. There were names for boys who like to dress up in women's undies. The laughter would never stop, even if I was doing it under protest.

"Can't you bring in one of the girls from Saint Brigit's?" I asked, casting haplessly about for a loophole, an escape route from this nightmare. This was my proverbial last-ditch gambit. Saint Brigit's College was the Catholic girls' school down the road, they often collaborated with Chamberlain Academy on the annual drama festivals.

"Can't spare any," Ms R explained conversationally, "we need them all for the grand finale right after your solo. Sorry, but it seems like you're out of luck, Mikki. Good thing you have a fantastic pair of legs."

I felt a soft, crimson flush invading my features. Was she deliberately taunting me, taking pleasure in my evident discomfort? Adults could be incredibly cruel sometimes, especially when they had enough power to pull rank. She must have known how embarrassed I felt, must have known that this would make me the laughing stock of the entire school. I was already halfway there, thanks to my Mother's insistence that I study dance and movement. Flashing my panties in the cancan would only make things worse. A hundred times worse, a thousand times.

"Mrs Ramsey…I can't do this. I'm not a girl."

I glanced around the staff room, hearing muted chuckles from the other teachers. They were all enjoying this, enjoyed seeing me robbed of my fragile adolescent dignity, reduced to a pleading infant. And why not? I was a child after all, my feelings didn't matter in the least. I shifted listlessly from foot to foot, almost dancing with frustration. Ms Ramsey regarded my performance with considerable amusement.

"Well, it's good to see you're getting your practice in early," she remarked, setting the mug down on her desk, "though I think we'll have to work on your pat en l'air. Rehearsals begin tomorrow at three thirty, Mikki. See you then."

I opened my mouth to make one final decisive complaint, but paused mid-sentence as she hit me with a massive dose of Teacher's Eye. I dropped my gaze immediately, wilting like a frozen rose. The decision had been made and nothing would alter the verdict. At barely sixteen years of age, I had no defense against The Eye, and Ms R was a world-class exponent. It was over, I was beaten.

Same as always.

I turned towards the staff-room door, feeling used, manipulated, confused. It was so blatantly unjust – she was an adult, a teacher, someone who was supposed to inspire faith and trust. Now she was going to force me into a skirt, subject me to the scorn and derision of the whole community. Face downcast to the floor, I headed for the hallway, dragging my steps on the scuffed and faded floor tiles.

"Oh – Mikki?" Ms R called brightly, just as I reached the open doorway. I looked back over my shoulder, eyebrows raised in expectation, hoping against all logic that she'd changed her mind, that it was a joke, some astronomically improbable misunderstanding. That she'd let me off and spare me the humiliation of a lifetime.

Given the circumstances, I should have known better.

"Don't forget to wear your prettiest panties," she said, eyes sparkling with hidden mischief. And that was all it took. The entire room erupted in mirth, teachers rocked back in their chairs, cackling like a bunch of old maids over some ribald joke.

Their laughter followed me all the way down the corridor.

---

Tracy Sheffield walked along Coronation Drive, the afternoon sun casting long fingers of gold through the skeletal branches. The crisp air carried the faint scent of woodsmoke and drying leaves, a subtle reminder that winter was not far off. The street was quiet except for the soft rustle of leaves stirred by a gentle breeze, a whispered symphony for one.

Tracy was a shadow tracing the edges of the day, a figure shaped by half-formed secrets and a yearning that whispered beneath the surface, waiting for a chance to bloom. He — or perhaps she — carried secrets folded deep inside, feelings that didn't quite fit the shape others expected. And today, those hidden truths felt closer to the surface than ever.

The ivy clustered walls of Lainsbury Academy loomed ahead, the most prestigious college of its kind in this part of the hinterlands. With a student population roughly the size of a small town, it had played a central role in Tracy's life for the past nine years.

It would continue to do so for the next six.

Tracy's hand brushed the cool iron railing as she climbed the steps to the music department. The last rays of sunlight spilled like molten gold across the red brick, turning shadows long and tender. Somewhere inside, a fragile thrill fluttered — a secret kind of hope that mingled with the tightening in her chest.

It was late in the day, and Tracy had an after school appointment with Ms. Helena Ramsey ("Helen" to those in the know), her ultra-cool, totally with-it gothic-hippie homeroom teacher. She had a good idea what the meeting would be about; the rumor mill had been running overtime ever since the Big Announcement last week. Some great, unspoken mystery loomed on the horizon — an enigma wrapped in whispers and half-truths, likely to pull her into its orbit. And Tracy Sheffield, already balancing more than most, felt the ground shift beneath her feet.

She should have felt proud.

Being chosen for a pivotal role is an honour in any production, even one so 'humble' as Lainsbury Academy's school concert. She should have felt flattered, should have felt ecstatic. But what she truly felt was simple curiosity. Curiosity with a touch of anxiety. And that was the strangest part, all things considered.

Tracy been treading the floorboards since her sixth birthday, headlining the programme in pantomimes, dance recitals, and mannequin parades without number. Stage fright wasn't the source of her trepidation. No, something else was fueling her apprehension, something entirely unrelated to her choreographic skills.

Yes: Miss Helena Ramsey (call me "Ms.") had chosen Tracy without an audition. Yes: her background in dance and movement gave her a minor edge over all the other prospective candidates. Still, it was only a slight advantage, which was why the decision seemed so unusual. After all, she had her rivals — stiff competition by any measure — and any one of them could have taken the part. Syd Chambers had studied classical ballet. Scott Bowers was the district ballroom champion, and Johnny Slash had won medals at the state finals.

Of course, Ms. Ramsey wouldn't have chosen any of them for the role; in point of fact, none of them had even been in the running. Syd was better suited to musical comedy, Scott had a major attitude problem at the best of times, and Johnny Slash simply didn't look right. It had to be Tracy, come what may. The reason should have been obvious, blatantly obvious as a matter of fact, but she couldn't admit it to herself — at least not at that stage.

All the same, she'd been openly intrigued when the auditions had been announced earlier that month. They were presenting an Olde Tyme Music Hall at the end of November, a musical extravaganza which seemed to incorporate half the student body. The show featured a Moulin Rouge number harkening back to the nightclubs and cabarets of nineteenth century Paris, slated to be the highlight of the production.

Lainsbury Academy was renowned for its theatre department, and no expense had been spared in terms of costume, lighting and set design. Ms. Ramsey had promised the local press a riveting performance of spectacular proportions, and nothing would prevent her from keeping her word. Only problem was, Lainsbury Academy was an all boy's school.

And Tracy was the only one capable of dancing the French Cancan.

"The cancan? But...Ms. Ramsey — I'm a boy."

Tracy could feel her cheeks literally glowing with embarrassment. Her head spun with a feverish blend of shame and excitement. She knew her homeroom teacher extremely well, they'd been together since the fourth grade. She wouldn't force her to go through with this against her will (though there ways always the possibility of coercion). Tracy could be certain of that much at least.

"Sorry, I hadn't noticed," the teacher replied, smiling to herself, "all the same, I'm afraid there's not much alternative."

Tracy was standing by her desk in the staff room, attempting to negotiate a role of lesser importance, presumably one which didn't involve a dress and ten pounds of petticoats. Ms. Ramsey was sitting in a computer chair, absently drinking a coffee. Nestles' cafe au lait; All of France in a Cup.

"Anyway," she continued offhand, "I've already spoken to your Mother, and she's given her OK. Seemed rather pleased by the idea, as a matter of fact."

Yes, Tracy could well imagine her Momma's shrill excitement at the news; Eleanor Sheffield had always been a lifelong patron of the arts. Worse still, Mom and Ms. R were as thick as thieves, having worked together on half a dozen local productions. She decided to press on despite the hopelessness of the situation. There was too much at stake for her to give in without a fight.

"It's a girl's dance, Ms. Ramsey. Nobody's going to believe..."

"Oh, I'm sure they will," she answered, calmly sipping from her Starbucks mug, "Tracy, you've done all this before. It certainly won't be the first time you've worn a dress on stage. Remember the Christmas panto a few years ago?"

"Yes, but this is...different," Tracy spread her hands helplessly. She'd be dancing the cancan en solo, required to have to raise her skirt and show off her underthings to roughly half the town. Images of frilly white panties and long black stockings filled her head.

"I guess you're right," Ms. R agreed reasonably enough, "the cancan's a tricky and rather complex routine. That's why I chose you. We need the best, and you're the one, kiddo."

"Why can't one of the girls from Saint Brigit's do it?" Tracy asked, casting about for a loophole. Saint Brigit's College was the Catholic girls' school down the road, the two academies often collaborated on their annual drama festivals.

"Can't spare any," Helen explained conversationally, "they'll all be busy up at the Fringe Festival. Seems like you're out of luck, Tracy. Good thing you have a fantastic pair of legs," she added, teasingly.

A deep, rosen blush invaded Tracy's features. It was true, she had an excellent set of gams, the envy of practically every woman in Lainsbury County. Physically, she was in remarkable shape, thanks to her Mother's insistence that she study dance and movement.

All the same, it did little to ease her mounting trepidation; the thought of flashing her underpants before a packed auditorium made her head spin with a kind of ... guilty pleasure. She pictured the stage with its bright lights, the sea of faces waiting in the dark. What would it be like to raise her petticoats over her waist, to let the flutter of lace and chiffon catch the air before the crowd? The idea was thrilling — an intoxicating dance of daring and delight.

Am I actually thinking of going through with this?

She glanced around the staff room, hearing muted chuckles from the other teachers. Were they laughing at her, enjoying her obvious discomfort and embarrassment? Why wouldn't they? She was a child after all, her feelings didn't matter in the least. Grown-ups could be so cruel sometimes, especially when they had enough power to pull rank...

Except — they weren't. Not really.

In that moment, the room seemed somehow brighter, less threatening. The lingering staff went about their business, a silent chorus to this smalltown drama. They knew the show depended on Tracy stepping into this role, and none of them said a word.There was no mockery here, no ridicule, just whispered comments and appraising glances. If anything, it was an atmosphere of tacit approval.

Tracy's thoughts raced ahead to the routine itself —the quick steps, the fluttering skirts, the laughter and cheers. She imagined the garters on her legs, the whisper of lace against her skin, the sudden flash of her ruffled girlpants as she kicked high into the air. The thought made her flush with a mixture of boldness and delight.

"Do you...honestly think I'll be okay?" she asked hesitantly.

Ms. Ramsey's smile deepened. "Of course you will, Tracy. You're the only one who can do it justice. Trust me on that."

The teachers nearby shared another quiet laugh, the kind that held no cruelty, only a shared appreciation of the moment's sweetness. Tracy glanced up at her teacher, cheeks tinted soft pink, and nodded her assent. She couldn't quite bring herself to speak the words aloud, but her expression alone spoke volumes.

"Well then," Helen said smartly, turning back to her desk with a business-like demeanor, "I guess it's settled then. Rehearsals begin tomorrow at three-thirty. You can work on your pat en l'air. See you then?"

"Yes m'm."

"On your way then."

Tracy felt a mild tap on her bottom as she turned towards the staff room door. The was no shame, no fear, no heart-pounding sense of urgency (although she knew that might come later). Her anxieties were settling down somewhere between apprehension and growing excitement. This had all gone much better than she could have possibly hoped, much better, in fact, than she had any right to expect. She'd almost made it out to the hallway when she heard the voice, tugging at her ear from across the room.

"Oh, Tracy?"

She looked back over her shoulder, eyebrows raised in expectation, wondering what else was needed to close the deal.

"Don't forget to wear your prettiest panties," Helen said, eyes sparkling with hidden mischief. And that was all it took. The entire room erupted in mirth, teachers rocked back in their chairs. Tracy hid her lips behind a slim, coy hand, hoping nobody heard the innocent giggles welling up from her belly.Their laughter followed her all the way down the corridor.

Tracy stepped out into the late autumn sunshine, the cool air filling her lungs like a promise. Her heart felt light, buoyed by a secret joy that perhaps, just perhaps, was the beginning of something wonderful—something that would change everything.

The walk home that afternoon was lighter somehow, less burdened by dread than with a fizzing curiosity. Tracy's mind played with the idea of the cancan — those flaring skirts, the bright lights, the crowd's murmuring hush before the first kick. What would it feel like to be the one all eyes were on? To bare her panties in a rush of crinoline and hear gasps, applause, laughter? The very thought sent a thrill darting through her.

She chose me, Tracy mused, turning left on Lethbridge Avenue, Ms. Ramsey chose me.

The choice had been no trifling coincidence; she'd settled on Tracy weeks before she announced the role. It had been something of a gamble, the proverbial calculated risk, but she'd had her reasons — reasons whispered quietly in the way Tracy moved, in the soft curve of her jaw, the graceful arch of her spine. It wasn't just that he danced well; far from it, in fact. It was something deeper, something woven into the very fibers of her being.

Tracy looked like a girl.

Assigned male at birth, she'd never felt quite at ease with the 'masculine narrative.' Her body told a different story — one written by invisible currents in the world, by chemicals in the air and water that had altered her physique in utero. Her body, a delicate symphony of hormones, danced to a different tune, favoring the gentler rhythms of oestrogen over the thunderous drum of testosterone.

Doctors had spoken of this quietly, of chemical pollutants which crept into the environment and insinuated themselves into unborn lives, shifting the scales of nature with a subtle, unseen hand. Genetics had stitched a unique pattern into Tracy's blueprint — a pattern that painted her with soft lines and fragile grace.

She'd endured a lot of mean-tempered ribbing over the years (because — who doesn't?) but she'd learned to ignore the transphobes long before Ms. Ramsey decided she was going to flash her underwear before the entire town. There'd been a couple of instances where the taunting almost got out of hand, but then the rehearsals started in earnest and things began to settle down.

Well...almost.

The training regime was brutal to say the least. The acrobatics alone required hundreds of hours of practice and repetition. The routine was far more than a simple quadrille; it was a storm of complexity. Fortunately, she was already well-versed in dance, her body fluent with movement and memory. If the cancan was a tempest, then Tracy was ready to summon its full fury.

In a world that often demanded masks and silence, Tracy's choice was an understated revolution — a dance that would crack open the sky and let in something new. Something shimmering with possibility.

It was around six weeks into rehearsals (and less than fourteen days from opening night) when Ms. Ramsey pulled Tracy aside one afternoon, eyes twinkling as she handed her a bulky package with the words Lainsbury Dancewear and Accessories stamped across the front. The moment his fingers touched the multicolor parcel, a wave of excitement coursed through her bloodstream. She had a good idea of what it contained — visions of French lace started whirling through her pretty blonde head.

"Don't worry, I'm not asking you to try it on right now," Ms. Ramsey said with a knowing smile, reading the nervous thrill flickering across the girl's face. "Take it home this evening and see how it fits. There are a few items you'll need to... uh, get accustomed to, so you might want to start practicing in full costume from now on."

Tracy's heart leapt at her words. Full costume? The idea spun like a secret dance whispered just for her. What mysteries awaited in that package, waiting to transform her beneath the stage lights?

The parcel was soft but surprisingly heavy as Tracy shifted it under one arm. She shot the teacher a questioning glance, wondering what she was going to find when she got home. Helen indulged her with a faintly amused smile.

"Women's underwear," she explained matter-of-factly before he could even ask, "a bit more complicated than what boys usually wear. You might want your mother's help to get everything right."

A moment of hesitation caught Tracy offguard, imagining her Sainted Mother fussing over lace and clasps. She opened her mouth to protest, but excitement overcame whatever objections she might have had. "It won't be anywhere near as bad as you think," Ms. Ramsey said softly, her voice a steady anchor as she turned and walked back into the auditorium, leaving Tracy alone in the hallway, clutching the promise of transformation.

"I...have to wear all this?"

Momma had spread the costume out from one end of the living room to the other. Gleaming satin seemed to cover every available surface. The sofa was absolutely inundated with frills and flounces; unidentified pieces of lingerie decorated the coffee table. A small mountain of petticoats occupied one of the armchairs, threatening to spill its nebulous mass over the carpet. Tracy stared around in utter amazement, her cheeks tinting with a fine, high colour. There were things she'd never seen before, thing with hooks and straps and clips that made her pulse flutter just looking at them.

Eleanor Sheffield viewed her daughter with a kind of wry amusement.

"Don't look so surprised," she laughed, picking up a handful of delicate black lace, "everything seems about the right size. It may feel a little strange at first, but you'll get used to it after a week or so." She held the garter belt out towards Tracy with an offhand gesture, long suspenders dangling enticingly from her right hand. The girl's eyes widened in mute protest.

"Momma —"

"Don't be silly; it won't hurt just to try it on. Anyway, you have to wear garters when you're dancing the cancan. It's practically a national law."

"Mom, I can't wear something like that."

"Why not?" Eleanor asked, eyebrows raised inquiringly.

"I ... well ... it's ...", Tracy's mind had gone suddenly blank; a thousand different emotions seemed to be struggling for control of her mind. She cast a glance around the room, taking in that avalanche of shimmering white corsetry.

"I just can't. They're ... they're so ... so ..."

"Pretty?" Mum asked, eyebrows still raised.

"Well…yeah."

"And what's so wrong with that?"

Tracy shifted nervously, torn between the shame and the secret joy swelling inside. Part of her craved to feel that silky web of garters pressed against her skin, to be swept up in the glamour and spectacle, to surrender to the dance with no reservations. But it was almost impossible for her put it into words.

"They're girls' clothes, Mom," she finally replied, down casting her face, "and I'm not really..."

Eleanor's fingers brushed her cheek, soft and steady. "It'll be fine, honey. You'll look beautiful. I promise."

Tracy met her gaze — her voice and touch wrapped around her like a protective cloak. This was her mother: strong as blue steel, yet tender beneath. How could she say no?

With a reluctant (yet oddly hopeful) sigh, Tracy shrugged her shoulders.

"Come on," Momma said, her hand gentle on his cheek, "let's get you dressed."

She stood naked before the cheval mirror they'd set up in the living room, her body a sleek arabesque deepening twilight. The weeks of training had payed off incredibly well; her torso was lush and lean and supple, her figure as slim as a willow. Her eyes roamed over her lithe, svelt form, finding not the slightest hint of masculinity.

She sensed her Mother's presence behind her, shuffling discreetly through decks of price tags and wrapping papers.

"Here."

Tracy stepped into pair of gleaming satin panties, the gossamer fabric gliding over her flesh like an unspoken promise. Her heart fluttered in near-rapture, her skin tingled with sweet liquid fire. A chill finger seemed to trace a line down her back, leaving her breathless with delight.

Her Mother's voice, again:

"Arms out."

Eleanor's fingers wove their deft magic, clipping her into the skin-tight lycra brassiere, an intricate web of French lace and floral trimmings. She caught her reflection in the mirror, not quite believing what she saw.

The living room gradually transformed along with her, becoming a hushed, quiet sanctuary where something new, fragile, and beautiful was taking shape. Silken remnants lay like petals scattered around them, Tracy stood amidst the soft chaos, cheeks still flushed but heart slowly steadying.

Eleanor moved with practiced ease, gentle hands brushing away strands of hair as she helped Tracy slip into the layers of costume — the delicate torsolette with its hook-and-eye enclosures, the adjustable garters attached with quiet patience. Every touch was careful, full of unspoken understanding, as if she knew the courage it took for Tracy to stand there, revealing a secret long buried beneath years of quiet wishing.

Tracy's breath caught the first time he felt the cool silk of the stockings glide over her bare legs, the sheer fabric whispering promises against his skin. It was strange, thrilling, and frightening all at once, but his mother's presence was a steady warmth behind it all, like a lighthouse shining through a sudden storm.

"See?" she said softly, straightening her seams and smoothing out the denier. "You look like a dream."

Tracy hesitated, eyes lowered. "Really?"

Eleanor lifted her chin gently. "Yes, really. You look like the girl you were always meant to be."
The words settled over her like a gentle rain, washing away some of the sharp edges of doubt and fear. The mirror caught her reflection, and for the first time, Tracy saw not a boy awkwardly trying on borrowed dreams, but a girl stepping into her own light — soft, trembling, radiant.

"I'm...kind of scared," she admitted, voice small.

Momma smiled, a quiet, knowing smile that held all the love in the world. "That's okay. Being scared means you're about to do something brave. And you won't be alone. I'm right here."
Tracy's eyes shimmered, a sudden surge of love flooding her chest — not just for the costume or the dance, but for the woman who saw her, truly saw her, and held her close without question.

In that moment, the boundaries between mother and daughter blurred, woven together by whispered reassurances and shared hope. The costume was no longer just fabric and lace — it was the beginning of a journey, a rite of passage bathed in the quiet light of acceptance.
And as his mother fastened the last clasp, Tracy knew she was ready.

Opening Night:

Tracy lingered backstage, poised and breathless, the thrum of the orchestra pulsing through the floorboards beneath her heels. Her costume shimmered under the low lights—a riot of red and blue satin, cinched at the waist with a glossy black belt and layered with frothy white petticoats that rustled like gossip. Vermillion feathers crowned her hair in a flamboyant plume, bobbing with every nervous breath. Long black gloves hugged her arms to the shoulder, sleek and theatrical.

Her face was a porcelain mask — powdered smooth, flushed with a delicate rose — and her lips shone like ripe cherries, freshly kissed by Momma's careful hand. Her hair was woven into intricate French braids, tight and gleaming, each strand coiled with precision, framing the face of a young woman far more dazzling than anyone could guess.

Ms. Ramsey hovered in a flurry of motion, fussing over Tracy's costume. "Hold still, kiddo, your garters aren't straight," she chided, tugging at the ruffled skirts and smoothing the satin ribbons that clung to delicate lace. Her voice was a mixture of excitement and teacherly command, a queen bee overseeing her star performer.

Through the thick velvet curtains, muffled sounds of the restless audience drifted in — low murmurs, shifting chairs, the scrape of footsteps on worn wood. Tracy's eyes flickered to the side, peeking through a narrow slit. The theatre was packed to bursting; every seat occupied, every face turned toward the stage. Word had spread like wildfire through the town: a beautiful young girl was going to dance the French Cancan, and the entire community had turned out to see her.

"Ready?" Helen asked, running a last minute check over the girl's scarlet outfit. Carmine sequins sparked beneath her fingertips. The countdown had begun, the orchestra was already tuning up for the Grand Finale.

"Yes. Ready," Tracy replied without even a trace of hesitation.

"Good! You're up next. Wait for my signal."

Helen Ramsey vanished into the wings.

Tracy waited.

Momma leaned in close, her warm breath brushing Tracy's ear as she gently blotted the glossy sheen of her lipstick. "Perfect," she whispered with a proud smile. "You look just like the star you are."

In that shimmering moment — bathed in the soft glow of backstage light and anticipation — Tracy felt the stirrings of something new and fierce. She was no longer just a boy caught between worlds; here, behind the curtain, she was the dazzling young woman she had always known herself to be, ready to lift her skirts and dance her truth before the world.

Backstage, the theatre walls seemed to breathe with their own kind of expectancy — the air warm with makeup and nerves, pulsing faintly with the hush of a thousand held breaths beyond the velvet curtain.

Ms Ramsey stood at the podium beneath a golden arc of footlights, her voice rich and theatrical as it rang out across the hushed auditorium:

"And now, the moment you've all been waiting for… closing tonight's performance with a flourish straight from the heart of Paris, our very own Tracy Sheffield dances… The French Cancan!"

The audience erupted, a rumble of applause swelling like wind through autumn trees, all whispers and shifting weight as faces turned toward the curtain. Behind the drape, Tracy stood tall — spine straight, breath shallow, skirts gathered loosely in gloved fingers. The ruffled lace of her petticoats quivered like feathers in a breeze.

She could barely feel her feet on the floor. The lights had a heartbeat, and it matched her own. Her lips, touched in glossy crimson, parted in a silent breath as she stepped into her mark.

Then —

A surge from the orchestra it. The opening bars of Orpheus in the Underworld burst forth, all brass and string, sharp and joyous and absurd. The curtains yawned open with theatrical grace, revealing her like a secret finally shared.

The twin spotlights roared to life, blinding white, and the world vanished behind their glow. Her legs quivered beneath her, every muscle taut with anticipation. She raised her petticoats, treating the crowd to a show-stopping view of glaring white panties and black suspender stockings. The air was heavy with expectation, the weight of the audience's gaze pressing in from the shadows. But the audience was not just any crowd — they were hungry, eager. Word had spread about this daring act, and every seat in the theater was occupied. The pressure was intense, but somehow it felt right. This was her moment.

In that instant, Tracy danced.

Danced: not as a boy in costume, not as a student completing a school assignment, but as someone wholly herself — legs slicing the air in perfect rhythm, hair flying, petticoats flaring in radiant bloom. The crowd, dazzled, leaned forward like sunflowers to light.

It started with a quick step to the side, then another, each movement sharp, precise. A swirl of frills and lace followed her every motion, the crowd gasping as she spun, her knickers flashing in the limelight. Her heart beat in perfect rhythm with the music now, the anxiety evaporating into the fluidity of the dance. Every gesture — every flick of her petticoats — felt like an exhale she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

The audience's response was immediate: gasps, then a crescendo of whispers, some in awe, others in disbelief. Tracy couldn't help but steal a glance toward the wings, where her mother stood, smiling proudly. There was no shame, no embarrassment anymore, just a raw, pure thrill of performance. She was both the artist and the art, lost in the rhythm, the motions, the fleeting pleasure of freedom.

She kicked higher, stretching her garter straps to the breaking point, her heels hitting the stage floor with a staccato CLACK. Every eye in the audience followed her, not just watching, but feeling the surge of energy that radiated from her every step. She felt the music carry her, her limbs moving fluidly without effort, each kick, each twist, each twirl coming with an ease that seemed almost preordained.

Laughter, delighted clapping, and cheers filled the space — waves of sound rising in chorus as Tracy's performance reached its apex. She was beautiful, undeniably so. The crowd recognized it in the way she danced, in the way the light caught her petticoats as they flared out with each energetic leap. The audience's admiration was palpable, filling the air, weaving around her like a tangible force.

But amidst the adulation, there was something deeper. A part of her — perhaps the one that had been terrified moments earlier — was basking in the warmth of belonging. This was what Tracy had needed, perhaps even before she had known she needed it: acceptance. In this moment, in this performance, she had found it.

There was no shame in the way she moved, no fear of the way she was seen. She was, for the first time, entirely comfortable in her own skin, even as the world around her seemed to hold its collective breath. She wasn't just dancing for the crowd; she was dancing for herself.

The dance reached its climax with a breathtaking Royal Flash, the sharp thwack of her feet filling the space, the music swelling. The lights dimmed just slightly as Tracy hit the final pose — a swath of lace, a glittering twirl. Her heart raced as she held it, her chest heaving, a joyful smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She was drenched in light, glowing in the aftershock of her performance.

And then, silence.

A single, endless moment before raucous applause shook the walls to their foundations. Tracy stood, heart racing, breath coming in gasps, her hands trembling as she took a small, graceful bow.

The room literally vibrated with their admiration, their joy. She could feel their gaze like a soft caress, and for the first time that night, her nerves completely unraveled, leaving only a quiet satisfaction behind.

This was her moment. Nothing would ever change that; whatever happened from this day forward, she would never forget this moment of change and triumph.

As her Mother had said two weeks before, she was finally the girl she was meant to be.

The air in the dressing room buzzed with a jubilant frenzy. Laughter, chatter, and the clinking of champagne flutes filled the space as Tracy sat perched on a velvet stool, still flushed with the heat of her performance. The scent of powder and perfume lingered in the air, a familiar, comforting cloud of excitement. Around her, the room seemed alive with motion — everyone talking at once, congratulating her, fussing over her.

Helen Ramsey was beaming, her face flushed with a mix of pride and exhaustion, clapping her hands in delight as she replayed the performance. "I knew it! I knew you had it in you, Tracy!" she declared, her voice nearly drowning out the others.

Tracy's head was spinning from the attention, but she could hardly remember a time when she felt so alive. It was the kind of joy that left no room for doubt, no space for second-guessing. She had danced her heart out — and the world had responded in kind. The sheer warmth of their admiration filled her like a dream, and she found herself sinking into it.

In the midst of the celebration, Momma was the calm at the center of it all, a steady presence as she worked to help Tracy out of her costume. She was gentle, her hands moving with practiced ease, unbuttoning the bodice and loosening the straps of the corset. The moment was intimate in its quiet contrast to the wild celebration around them. Tracy's breath slowed as her mother's hands grazed her skin, steady and reassuring.

"Momma, do you think…" Tracy began, but the words caught in her throat. The question was unspoken, but the meaning was clear enough. Do you think I'll ever be this happy again? Her mother smiled softly, as if reading the thought behind Tracy's eyes. "You've made me so proud tonight, sweetheart," she whispered, her voice low and tender, meant only for the two of them. "I've never been prouder of you."

Tracy's heart fluttered, a delicate pulse of warmth spreading through her chest. Her mother's voice, so full of love, made everything else fade away. She was no longer the girl in the costume, the one who had once dreaded this moment for so long. She was herself, wrapped in the pure affection of a bond that could never be broken. She closed her eyes for a moment, pressing her cheek against her mother's shoulder, imprinting this moment into her memory; the joy, the pride, the indescribable sense of arrival.

Her tummy swirled with sweet liquid warmth as she climbed out of her red lace corset. Standing up in her glinting satin bra and virginal white panties, she leaned slightly forward, adjusting her sheer black stay-up with a delicate touch of her fingers. She was getting pretty good at this (although she still enjoyed her Mommy's sartorial ministrations).

"Future lingerie model," Helen declared with a sweeping gesture.

The room erupted again with laughter and exclamations as the Lainsbury Musical Society continued to clamor around, showering Tracy with praise. There was a softness to the way she held herself now, a deep, unshakable happiness that came from knowing who she was, and who she had beside her.It was then that the door to the dressing room creaked open, and young Syd Chambers, his shirt half-untucked and a wide grin on his face, stuck his head inside.

"Hey, Tracy!" he called, eyes twinkling. "There's a reporter from The Everdale Register outside, says they'd like to do an interview with you."

Tracy felt a sudden jolt of surprise, followed by a wave of excitement. An interview? She hadn't even thought about it — too caught up in the euphoria of the moment. And yet, here it was: her moment of fame. Syd leaned in further, giving her a quick thumbs-up. "They said something about taking a photo, too. Something for the front page."

Tracy turned to her Mother, eyes wide with near-astonishment. She'd come so far over the past couple of months, from the anxious young tranzie on Coronation Drive to the stunning young woman in front of them now. The stage had been her proving ground, but her Mother had always been her True North. No, she'd never felt this happy before — and it never could have happened without her crazy homeroom teacher and equally crazy Mom.

The photographer was waiting outside, his camera poised. Tracy and Eleanor walked toward the door, twining their arms about each other, silently reinforcing their mutual devotion. The warmth of her Mother's embrace, the proud gleam in her eyes — it was the kind of bond that transcended words. It was an unspoken agreement, a silent promise that no matter where life took her, Tracy would always — always — be loved.

The flash of the camera lit the room, capturing an image which would set new records in the tabloid industry: Tracy, utterly resplendent in bra, knickers and stockings, and her Mother, a radiant beacon of love and pride. Time seemed to pause, spiraling out to eternity, and all at once, Tracy saw a lifetime of infinite possibilities opening up before her. The photograph (now immortalized in Page Three glossies across the country) would always remind them of this night — of the love they shared, and the dreams they had fulfilled, together.

As the evening drew to a close, Tracy Sheffield understood that there would be no going back, no return to the boy she'd once been. All of that was history now, fragments of a past that had lost all meaning. She was exactly where she was meant to be, and perhaps more importantly...she knew where she truly belonged.

---

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, we all loved revealing our petticoats on the flimsiest pretexts - mainly because we knew how cute we looked. Fortunately, the opportunities came thick and fast in our part of the empire: my folks were "Lindy" fanatics from way back, and encouraged me to join in the festivities. As a matter of fact, I became the star attraction.

It was the practically the same thing every night - come 6.30 pm, they'd put Benny Goodman on the record player and I'd twirl around the living room with my skirts flying almost straight out from my waist. Mom and Dad always praised my antics, apparently it reminded them of when they were courting during the war. Given the circumstances, my eventual segue into the cancan was inevitable.

Here's how it happened:

One day, I was turning cartwheels in the backyard for my friends, 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 behavior for girls back then, and Mom jokingly asked if we were practicing the cancan. I relied with an indignant "No!" but of course everyone was giggling at sight of my white cotton knickers.

I think I was about seven or eight at that time. I knew what the cancan was from movies and TV; like most girls my age, I thought it was the cheekiest dance imaginable, because it involved showing off your undies in public. Mom's teasing comment set some wheels turning in my mind, and a few days later I asked her if I could lean how to dance the cancan.

Mom wasn't really an expert, but she had a good idea of the basic steps and gave me some mock lessons in the living room. It wasn't much different from what we did in gym class at school (cartwheels, handstands etc), I just needed to throw in a few high kicks here and there. Mom even put the "Cancan Polka" song on the radiogram so I could sing along while I practiced.

Mom mentioned it to my Dad a few nights later, and naturally, they both agreed it was time for a Command Performance. At first I played coy, but after a little coaxing, I let Mom take me upstairs to change into my Official Costume (which consisted of an ordinary red sundress, 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 was already grinnign with anticipation - I'd known this moment would be inevitable, and had been looking forward to it all day long.

Anyway, as soon as the music started, I launched into my routine, dazzling my parents 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. Mom and Dad both applauded this "Royal Flash," demanding an encore on the spot (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, sometimes winning a standing ovation for my efforts. On one occasion, I even talked my girlie cousins into joining in - but as I often say - that's a tale for another day.

---

Casey Rodgers waited back stage at the Civic Center, his tummy fluttering with excitement. It was shownight for his dancing school, and everyone was rushing about frantically preparing for their numbers. Very soon, he'd be out on stage dancing before a large audience, the culmination of months of exhausting rehearsals. The long period of training had left him as tense as a tightly strung bow.

The murmuring crowds he'd seen out in the theatre had added considerably to his last minute butterflies. The place was utterly packed with people - parents and kids, teachers and students, old folk from Chamberlain Retirement Village. Hundreds of interested parties, all turned out in their Sunday fineries to cheer and whistle and hoot as the latest generation of Fred Astaires wove through their steps.

All those faces, all those eyes, turned up towards the stage!

Casey took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He really had nothing to worry about. He and his troupe were doing a Broadway style tap-dog number; complicated and tricky at times, but none too difficult after so many hours of repetition. It was pretty silly, really. He knew he'd perform the drill without a hitch, he'd done it at least a thousand times before. But then, he always felt this way on shownight.

Turning away from the curtains, he walked back towards the dressing rooms. Backstage was currently in a state of siege; girls running everywhere in tutus and leotards, boys decked out in vests and tails climbing the wings. A gabble of mothers trailed close behind, fussing and scolding, calling for order above the din.

Well, at least I've got half an hour to practice, Casey thought, glancing around in the general chaos, if I can just find a spare corner with enough space to tap a shoe. He considered going outside and using the loading bay, but decided against it. Didn't want miss his curtain call; he'd never hear the end of it. He pushed his way over towards the stairs leading to the changing areas. Everyone seemed to be down here, the dressing rooms were probably empty.

"Casey. CASEY!!"

"Huh?" Casey whirled towards the voice.

It was Ms Deane, his ballet teacher.

Evelyn Deane was a long, streamlined woman in her mid-thirties, willow-slim and lean hipped. Her eyes were always hard and serious, no matter what mood she was in. The woman was wading through a cloud of Lilliputian Kylies, her classical features marked with impatience. Casey wandered over to meet her halfway.

"There you are," she said, looking him over with a familiar knitting of the eyebrows, "I've been searching for you everywhere." Casey's heart sank roughly six fathoms; he was in trouble. No idea what the problem was, but he knew that tone: honey laced with razor blades.

"I was just looking for a place to -" he stammered in a high, uncertain voice. Ms Deane cut him off with a dismissive wave of her hand.

"You'll have to get changed again. You're on in ten minutes," she said, gesturing for him to follow her up the stairs. He hurried along behind, not quite certain what his teacher had meant. As far as Casey knew, he was already in costume: black top, black jeans, and size five work boots. What was going on here?

"I thought I was on in half an hour, Ms Deane," the boy protested fretfully, "I'm in the Tap-dog number."

"Not any more. Toby Macklin will be taking your place."

"What?"

"You're out of the Tap-dogs, Casey."

"Why?" Casey exclaimed, still not understanding. He'd spent what seemed like six years perfecting his routine, and now Ms Deane was tearing it out from under his feet.

"Look, we don't have a lot of time, Casey," Ms Deane explained, shooing him up the stairs, "Janey North just twisted her ankle and we need someone to replace her. You'll be taking her place."

"What?"

"You're taking Janey's place".

"Janey North? But she's in -"

Suddenly, Casey understood. Everything. He gaped up at his teacher, his face a mask of disbelief. Janey North was one of the girls in the Montmartre number, the one everybody had been talking about for the last three months. Casey's eyes widened in dawning horror.

"But she's doing the can-can, Ms Deane!" Casey wailed, "I can't do that! I'm - you - you'll have to get some one else!!"

---

Having read thus far, you're doubtlessly aware that my sister and I were incorrigible knicker-flashers, making it more or less inevitable that we'd get 'round to dancing the cancan at some point. We'd both studied gymnastics since early childhood and used to impress our friends with various tricks we learnt down at the youth center - handstands, back flips, step-overs ect - anything that would "accidentally" display our undies in the playground. Given the circumstances, it was only a matter of time before we discovered the acrobatic joys of La Chahut.

If I remember correctly, we first started playing "Moulin Rouge" when I was about nine years old. It was a long weekend, our parents were out for the day and Lydia and I were watching TV from the living room floor. The cartoons were mostly finished for the day, the only thing worth watching was Rising Stars, a singularly lackluster talent quest where kids of no fixed ability competed for prizes nobody actually wanted. Our concentration normally wandered during the mid-morning dead zone, but on this occasion, there was something that definitely caught our interest.

One of the acts was a troupe of four girls dressed in bright red chorus outfits, complete with full circle petticoats and frilly white panties. Lydia and I watched in wide-eyed fascination as they whirled through their routine, which was mainly pirouettes and high kicks (although they finished the number by revealing their panty-bottoms to the camera).

Both of us were utterly intrigued by what we'd just seem. For my part, I'd always thought that only grown-up women danced the cancan. Neither of us had ever really imagined that girls our age might dance it too; certainly not until they were old enough to wear lipstick and make-up. Yet, here was the living proof, broadcast over the airwaves in glorious monochrome. And if they could dance the cancan on national television...

Lydia and I exchanged the briefest of looks, communicating on silent wavelengths beyond the reach of modern science. The thought of showing off my underwear in public was kind of exciting - almost intoxicating - and I could tell she was thinking precisely the same thing.

After the program finished, we got up and walked out to the rumpus room, guided by some innate telepathy shared by close siblings. Not a word had been exchanged beforehand, but we'd already decided what we were going to do. There was a full-length cheval mirror leaning against the back wall, a cast-off antique handed down to us by some nameless great-aunt. We pulled it out to a more central position and immediately started playing house in front of it, giving each other the occasional side-long glance to confirm we were still on the same page.

We went through our usual catalog of domestic role-plays, warming up for the main event. We were both pretty eager to start the morning's panty-flashing festivities, but we had to observe the mandatory protocols. Seven interminable rounds of hide-n-seek later, Lydia eventually decided it was time to get the show on the road.

About time, I thought, feeling my temperature rise by slow degrees. We'd had the house to ourselves all morning, but our folks could arrive home at any minute. If we were going through with this, we had to do it now. As in right now, this instant!

Taking our customary positions at either side of the rumpus room, we raised our arms and spun two cartwheels in front of the mirror. This was the unspoken signal I'd been waiting for, the moment the performance would finally begin. My pulse was already ticking in the side of in my throat. With our gymnastic background, we'd be much better than the girls on TV; we were far more agile and limber.

We warmed up for around five minutes, spurring each other on to greater feats of acrobatic prowess, whipping across the floor in a swirl of hands, knees and forearms. Our feet seemed to brush the ceiling as we plummeted through our opening set. At one point I saw Lydia bounce off the sofa in a graceful mid-air spiral, executing an effortless double somersault. I followed with a triple handspring across the room, finishing up with a back-step dismount...

And then we were ready.

The only trouble was, we weren't exactly dressed for it. Lydia was wearing jeans, I was wearing shorts, and we weren't "officially" dancing the cancan yet. We needed an excuse to ease into the new role (because, believe it or not, that's exactly how young girls think). I looked over at my sister, knowing she'd take the lead in this instance. As always, Lydia had the perfect solution and - as always - she never failed to deliver.

"I can't stretch in these jeans," Lydia said with an exasperated gesture, "they're too tight to do cartwheels in."

"Same with my shorts," I replied in the same dismissive tones.

Lydia shrugged her shoulders and started fumbling with her belt, undoing the top button of her Levis.

"We'll just have to take them off," she remarked in a tone of utter resignation, as if we had no other choice.

Once she'd peeled down her jeans and stepped lightly out of them, I removed my black cotton culottes, dropping them onto the sofa without a backward glance. I felt an unusual flutter in my tummy as I straightened up, unconsciously tugging down on my t-shirt. While the hem reached to about six inches above the knee, I imagined it only barely covered the trim of my underpants.

Lydia stood watching me from the left side of the mirror, a slim, leggy girl in an over-sized tunic and long white knee-socks. After a few seconds hesitation, she gathered up the right side of her shift, exposing her bare thigh almost up to the hip. Eyebrows raised with an unspoken question, she glanced in my direction, then tilted her face towards the cheval. Are you ready? No words were necessary; I simply nodded my answer and the performance began.

Flipping our "skirts" clear up to our throats, we launched into an impromptu routine, cart-wheeling across the floor in front of the mirror. Crossing over from right to left, we adjusted our speed to allow our hemlines to fall away, revealing our tummies, thighs and panties at precisely the same moment. I was wearing a pair of white cotton knickers that came all the way up to the belly-button; Lydia, being a few years older, wore shiny nylon full briefs – glossy red with lacy inserts on the sides.

Next, we experimented with various dance steps – high kicks, flip-flops and hand-springs, trying to recall the cancan in exact detail from the numerous movies and TV shows we'd seen over the years. At one point, Lydia bent over backwards and kicked her legs into the air one at a time (she was always more supple than me) resulting in her t-shirt creeping all the way down to her bra.

I followed this up with a point-perfect handstand, parting my legs in a classic aerial split. My light yellow tunic turned completely inside out, hanging tenuously from my shoulders and exposing my whole body from neck to toe. I could feel the cool afternoon air on my bare torso, raising a buzz of goose flesh along my tummy.

Precisely at that moment, I realized the windows to the rumpus room were wide open, and giggled with pink-faced embarrassment. I dropped down back onto my feet, smoothing out my clothing and wondering how much the neighbors had seen. Lydia asked what was wrong, and after I explained, we decided to preserve our dignity as best we could. Calling an end to the afternoon's activities, we drew the curtains and climbed back into our clothes, trying not to snicker at how silly we felt. If any of the local boys had seen us, we'd never live it down!

Needless to say, fear of exposure didn't deter us very long. The temptation to flash our panties to the world was irresistible. The very next morning after breakfast, we headed straight down to the rumpus room to continue practicing our faux-cancan. Jeans were shucked, hemlines were raised and pristine white knickers went on open exhibition.

Our rehearsal began with the curtains closed, but after a while, Lydia found an excuse to throw them open, claiming that the room was getting too hot. Nothing could have been further from the truth, of course: summer had long since departed and autumn conditions had kept the house cool for weeks.

I raised no objections – despite my earlier misgivings, the idea of being caught doing the cancan made my pulse race with excitement. I was certain Lydia that felt the same way; if anybody happened to walk past our window and see our underpants, we'd just have to deal with it.

After we'd worked out a satisfactory dance number, we took a short break to discuss our progress, determining that tunics and t-shirts just weren't right for the cancan. Still flaunting our undies, we ran up to our rooms and started rummaging around our closets for more suitable attire.

As it happened, Lydia had a nice, long full-circle skirt with broad lace trimmings, almost exactly what she was looking for. I had a high-waisted party dress with puffy sleeves and "Spanish" ruffles around the hem. It wasn't as long as Lydia's skirt, but I knew it would be perfect for twirling about the room!

Once we'd finished assembling our costumes, we swept back downstairs to compare outfits. It turned out we'd also been more selective in our choice of underwear. The subject was virtually unavoidable; the first thing I asked Lydia was what color panties she had on. Naturally enough, she was more than willing to oblige.

Lifting her skirt in the mirror, Lydia revealed a pair of black satin knickers, shimmering full briefs with a garish red trim around the legs. My eyes practically bulged out of their sockets when I saw them, I didn't know she owned anything so undeniably cheeky. Apparently, they'd been a birthday present from one of our older cousins, but she'd never had a reason to wear them until now. You can probably imagine how jealous I was at that moment - Lydia got all the best stuff!

Reading my expression with a well-practiced eye, she asked if I was wearing anything special. I responded by stepping forward with my right foot and raising my dress to my chin. As a general rule, I only wore plain white cottontails, but I also had a set of incredibly girlie underthings hidden at the back of my closet. Like my sister, I didn't get much chance to wear them out, but today seemed the perfect opportunity.

I'd chosen a pair of pastel pink sissy-pants with delicate lace frills all over the sides and bottom. A dainty floral pattern decorated the front, barely visible against the sheer, rosy fabric. They were, without question, the cheekiest little panties I had in my entire wardrobe.

Gazing at my reflection in the mirror, my head spun at the thought of showing them off: quite suddenly, I was secretly hoping that somebody - anybody - might be looking in through the window right now. These knickers were just too darned pretty to cover up.

Lydia sidled up next to me, still holding her skirt high over her waist. In spite of my overwhelming embarrassment, I still couldn't help grinning with secret mischief. I was looking forward to this – and it seemed a pity there would be no-one else to witness our performance.

Posing together in the cheval, Lydia asked me if I was ready to begin. Raising my dress as far as it would go, I nodded my assent, and we started into our routine.

"You ready?" she asked, nodding in my general direction.
"Yeah," I replied, carefully shifting my center of balance.
"OK. On the count of three. One -"
"Two-"
"THREE!"

And suddenly, directly behind us – the sound of a photograph being taken.

---

I remember the year the spring sunlight danced across the sidewalks, when the wind seemed to carry perfume and secrets and laughter in equal measure, and when my best friend and I, two half-grown boys, learned how to swirl in frilly skirts under stage lights that felt as warm and all-seeing as the sun.

We were thirteen and living inside each other's shadows — Simon and I — as boys often do at that age when the world still breathes in wide, bright colors and secrets are things you taste, not speak.

It started, as many grand misadventures do, with older sisters and a twist of fate.

Both our siblings studied at Ridgewick Dance Academy, that grand old studio at the edge of town where the windows were always fogged with effort and dreams. That year's annual music hall performance was to be their triumph — a sold-out affair, months in the making, tickets vanishing faster than snowflakes on a griddle.

Then destiny played its inexorable card.

The girls had won awards from the Girl Guides — proper honors, interstate and all — and the jamboree was scheduled for the exact night of the performance. The choice was cruel: a lifetime opportunity or the stage. They wanted the jamboree, of course. Who wouldn't? But Ridgewick Academy needed bodies, dancers, someone to fill their shoes — literally.

That someone, it turned out, was us.

Simon and I, proud bearers of a few modest dance medals ourselves, suddenly became the focus of a plan concocted by two very determined mothers. Our fathers — gentle tyrants of discipline and barbecue — grunted their assent, but it was the mothers who carried the plan forward, like generals leading troops into battle.

We didn't know what we were getting into. Not really. Not until we were standing in the Ridgewick changing room, staring down at two cherry-red dresses folded with reverence on a wooden bench. Next to them, tap shoes — girls' tap shoes — and hair ties — and...

We blinked.

I remember Simon turning to me, his lips pale and slightly open, as if some small sound had just escaped. "What's going on?"

Our mothers smiled, not unkindly. "You'll be standing in for your sisters."

"But... the dresses?"

They didn't blink. "You'll look perfect. And if you don't want trouble with your fathers, you'll change. Now."

And so we changed.

There was something oddly sacred in the way my mother helped me into that dress. The fabric felt alien against my skin — cold, whisper-soft — and the shoes made my feet feel like they belonged to someone else. I couldn't meet my own eyes in the mirror. I looked like a ghost pretending to be a girl, like someone playing dress-up in a dream they'd later forget.

Mrs. Adams, supple as a lioness, appeared like a magician at curtain rise. The Dance Mistress gave us one long, appraising look and smiled a slow, thoughtful smile.

"I'm sure," she said, her voice syrupy and sure, "no one will even suspect."

The training began that very day — sharp turns, graceful steps, back straight, wrists delicate, head high. She made us dance like girls. No, not like girls — like ballerinas, like theatre queens, like performers who carried the weight of applause on their shoulders. We learned the sway of hips and how to step in rhythm with a dozen other feet. We learned how to hold our breath and our skirts.

We learned how to become someone else.

---

The following days blurred into mornings of chiffon and afternoons of sweat. There were bras — which we wore against all logic — because 'all girls in the show wear them.' There were leotards, high-kick rehearsals, and vocal lessons until our voices, still unbroken, rang out in shimmering harmonies.
The song we were assigned?

I Enjoy Being a Girl

A rather cruel joke, I thought at first. I had prayed — prayed! — that my voice might crack just in time. But no; the notes came pure and clear, and under Mrs. Adams' watchful eye, Simon and I sang like nightingales in borrowed plumage.

Strangely, the fear faded. The embarrassment curled up somewhere and went to sleep. The girls in the troupe welcomed us — some with shy giggles, others with teasing that felt more like blessing. Only one girl  — lead danseuse Emily Hunter — eyed us with something colder than curiosity. But even she would soften in time.

The rehearsals wore on. Costumes came and went — pink dresses with ankle socks, swirling 1950s skirts with petticoats that rustled like secrets, bright yellow numbers that puffed and glittered in the lights. Then, the final number: the legendary cancan.

The night of the show arrived like a cathedral bell, booming in our chests.

Backstage, everything shimmered. Costumes glowed. Makeup shimmered like constellations. My hands trembled as I adjusted my garters. Simon looked pale but resolute. We were dressed to thrill — frilly knickers, black suspender hose, high heels that clicked like typewriters across the dressing room floor.

And then — the stage.

---

The lights dimmed. The orchestra struck a bold chord that rippled like lightning across the stage. The velvet curtain, heavy with years of dreams and powdery dust, shivered once and lifted — and there we were.
Eight girls.

Or what the world thought were girls.

Our feathers fluttered. Our skirts fanned out like blooming roses. We stood in two neat rows, the breath trembling in our throats. I could hear Simon beside me, exhaling slowly through his nose like we'd practiced backstage, as if he could calm his hammering heart by willing it into rhythm.

Then came the music — bold, brassy, impossible to ignore — and we danced.

At first, I moved like a marionette, stiff and too aware of everything: the sway of my hips, the tickle of stockings against skin, the cool whisper of petticoats brushing my thighs. The real horror, the thing I had dreaded, came with the first high kick — when, in perfect time, we threw our legs skyward and lifted our skirts in choreographed abandon.

For a moment, I couldn't breathe.

There it was — exposed to the world, under the dazzle of footlights and the curious, countless eyes of the crowd: soft lace, satin bows, the pale shimmer of stockings climbing my legs like ivy. I felt naked. I felt foolish. I felt thirteen and not enough of anything. I wanted to vanish behind the velvet folds of the curtain, or slip between the boards like a ghost unsure of the script.

But the music didn't care.

It thundered forward, pulling us with it — and something in me shifted.

The kick came again. I lifted higher, the skirt arced like a flame around me, and I caught a glimpse — not of myself, not of fear — but of motion, of rhythm, of flight. The crowd clapped, and the sound washed over me like warm rain. A woman in the front row was laughing — not cruelly, but with joy — her hands clapping to the beat, her face lit up like she hadn't felt that alive in years.

And suddenly, so was I.

Each kick now was a celebration. Each twirl, a dizzy prayer. I wasn't a boy in borrowed clothes anymore. I was a dancer, a comet in a spinning red sky, part of something too big and golden to name.

The fear? Gone. The shame? Melted like frost under the footlights. In its place: exhilaration, like diving off a cliff and finding you can fly.

I was enjoying this.

Every second. Every kick. Every note.

And beneath the rouge and the ribbons and the stockings, I was still me — just... more. More alive. More bold. More true than I had ever imagined I could be.

The spotlight was hot as the sun. The music rose again, fast and bold, and we swept about the stage like firecrackers. Skirts lifted. Legs kicked. The crowd howled its approval. Sweeping to the edge of the stage, I flipped my petticoats over my head, offering the room a breathtaking view of my ripe, pantied bottom. Simon — and each of the girls — joined me at the brink, jostling their satin bottomtops before the rapturous mob. I felt a garter snap against my straining haunch but barely noticed. A wild sense of exaltation careened through my bloodstream, blotting out all other emotions.

Simon — Simone — wheeled past me, skirt flaring out from her waist; knickers and thighs and black suspender stockings on open exhibition. We danced like girls. No — we danced like stars, like something luminous, ephemeral, like boys who had walked through fire and come out wearing sequins.

We reached the crescendo — skirts held high, legs flashing in rhythm, and then the splits, each of us falling to the boards in perfect precision, a human firework in motion. The applause that followed felt like the world had cracked open and light was pouring in. As I sat there, breathless, my legs trembling and my chest heaving, a smile pulled at the corners of my painted lips.

Applause.
Encore.
More applause.

Somewhere between the curtain rising and the curtain falling, something had changed in me. Not just the clothes or the voice or the makeup — but something deeper. Some hidden part of myself had stepped forward, blinking in the light.

---

After the third encore, we were radiant and breathless and soaked with joy. Strangers hugged us. Girls kissed our cheeks. I felt like a comet streaking across a boyhood sky. Backstage, Emily  — the girl with the frosty visage — silently entered my field of vision. Her eyes were soft now, her smile something I hadn't expected.

"You were amazing," she whispered. "If you ever want... I've got some spare cheerleader dresses."

I didn't know what to say, so I said I'd think about it.

Simon and I walked home still dressed — red lips, curled hair, heels clicking on pavement that had never felt so alive. Our sisters cheered in triumphant return. Our mothers cried. Our fathers nodded once, solemn and proud.

Later, when I lay in bed and peeled down to my frilly lace panties, I stared at the ceiling and wondered who I had been on that stage.

Maybe not a girl.
Maybe not just a boy.
Maybe just... someone who could dance.

As I'd learnt all too well — boys can cancan.

---

---

Misha Waverley adjusted his beret as he made his way along Lyndhurst Road. It was late October and the wind carried a chill promise of snow. The breeze was particularly brisk down here in the middle of town, where the office blocks cast their long morning shadows. Misha glanced at his watch; his appointment was for half-ten, which left him five minutes to find the place he was looking for. He hastened his pace a little, his tangled blond hair whisking out in the Autumn mistral.

He saw the sign as he crossed the intersection at Mansfield Avenue: a large orange marquee reading LACE & GARTERS in brilliant mauve letters. Setting off from the sidewalk, he scanned both sides of the crossing, anxiety stamped on his features. If anyone from school saw him sneaking into a dancewear store he'd spend the rest of his life eating lunch with the geek brigade.

Maybe worse.

Having ascertained that the street wasn't crawling with informants from the nerd squad, Misha strolled across the intersection and made his way to the store's front entrance. It was essential to look calm, relaxed - the least sign of guilt would expose him in a second. It had taken all of his courage to come this far, and even now he wondered if he'd have the nerve to go through with his plan.

He paused outside the shopfront's display window, struggling to control his galloping heartbeat. The window bore a fifties-style illustration of a young woman twirling in a ballroom dress, skirts flying up around her waist. The logo read: LACE & GARTERS!! SPECIALISTS IN COUNTRY, LINE AND BALLROOM DANCEWEAR. Beneath that, in smaller lettering; Custom fittings available on request.

Gazing in through the plate glass, Misha made out rack upon rack of glittering costumes; gowns, leggings, tutus, leotards - and petticoats. Hundreds of them by the look of things. The sight did little to sooth his racing pulse, although it did steel his resolve somewhat. Here he was, wavering on the footpath while the object of his desire was virtually within arm's reach. All he had to do was open the door and step inside.

A small silver bell rang over Misha's head as he walked into the store. He hesitated two paces in, staring around in awed silence. A gust of warm air caressed his face with insubstantial fingers; he felt as if he'd slipped into some glittering fantasyland. The store was literally dripping with satin; dresses and skirts hung in rows stretching off to infinity. Sequins sparkled like tiny clustered diamonds, black velvet rippled in luxuriant folds everywhere he looked. His face was literally glowing with child-like wonder.

"May I help you?"

Misha glanced around with a start. For a moment he couldn't locate the owner of the voice; then he saw a tallish woman looking over a rack of body stockings. She had dark blue eyes and curly brown hair tied back in a short ponytail. Misha estimated her age to be maybe forty. She stood regarding him with a sharp, business-like expression.

"Oh, hi ..." the boy replied, a little hesitantly, "I'm Michelle Waverley, I called you last Wednesday. I have an appointment at ten-thirty."

He cast a nervous eye around the shop, noticing for the first time there were close to a dozen customers wandering between the rows. Most of them were female, and all of them seemed to be looking at him. An identical pair of Mariah Careys were standing in the hosiery section, diligently comparing stockings whilst casting him suspicious glances. Misha tried to ignore them, focusing on what the tall woman was saying.

"Appointment?" she repeated, stepping out from behind the clothes rack. She was wearing black slacks and a loose yellow t-shirt. Her name tag read HI, I'M JUDY. A tape measure hung carelessly about her neck. She folded her arms neatly over her ample breasts, her face engraved with skepticism (or so he imagined).

"Yes - an appointment," Misha answered uncomfortably, "for a costume fitting."

The woman's features visibly softened.

"Oh - right," she said brightly, "you're the girl who called a few days ago. You're in a musical ... Calamity Jane or something?"

Misha began to relax.

"Yes, that's right. I'm in the chorus."

That was his story, his rationale for visiting a costumier specializing in girls' dance wear. He had grappled with the problem for weeks, ever since his latest transvestic obsession had emerged. Obsession being the operative word in this case; an inexplicable desire to own a ballroom crinoline had seized him over a month ago. Irresistible as well as inexplicable, to be precise. It had tortured his evenings, invading his dreams and robbing him of sleep for nights on end until a solution had finally occurred to him. It seemed to make perfect sense at the time, and appeared to be working now.

"In the chorus?" Judy asked, "well, let's see what we can do for you." Indicating the direction with a wave of her hand, she led him through an aisle of spandex tights, then called out to the back of the show room: "Donna! That girl's here, the one from Chamberlain Musical Society. The one we talked about."

"Who?!" A peppery, somewhat crusty voice, tinged with mild annoyance.

"The one who's playing the dance hall girl. She's come in for a fitting."

"Oh, right."

Misha followed quietly, almost squirming with embarrassment. The one who's playing the dance hall girl. She'd virtually shouted it at the top of her lungs. Everyone in the store was staring at him now, he could feel their eyes drilling into his shoulder-blades. He kept his face to the floor, hoping to conceal the rosy flush invading his cheeks.

Still, he really had no reason to hide his face in shame. His charade was going according to plan. No one in the store suspected he was actually male.

At thirteen, Misha Waverley had the face and figure of an adolescent girl, his natural beauty enhanced by a cascade of thick golden hair. As a child, he'd wondered if he'd somehow been born in the wrong body, sometimes believing that there was a pretty young girl locked deep inside him. In recent weeks, this female persona seemed to have taken on a life of her own, almost compelling him to undertake this risky little enterprise.

Amazingly enough, the masquerade was working fine, despite his earlier misgivings. All he'd needed was a dab of make-up and a pair of low-hipped jeans.

"Over here," Judy said, taking him through to a traditional oaken counter at the back of the show room. A thin, bird-like woman sat behind the cash register, her face marked with the lines of perpetual irritation. She was reading a Silhouette romance, and like Judy, she carried a measuring tape around her neck.

All similarity ended there, however. Her tag read MRS D. ADDLER. No customer-friendly "Hi, I'm Donna" for this blue-rinse matriarch: call me Missus, or get the hell out of my shop. She looked up as Misha approached the counter, scrutinizing him through a pair of expensive, gold-rimmed glasses.

"So, you're playing a saloon girl, then?" she asked rather sourly, adopting the tone of a woman who expected the worse of everyone she met.

"Yes, Ma'am," Misha replied automatically. His parents had always taught him to respect his elders, regardless of how they approached him ('courtesy costs you nothing', was one of his mother's favorite sayings, although he frequently doubted the veracity of this particular quotation). Mrs D. Addler shot her partner a sidelong glance, eyebrows raised.

"You hear that? 'Yes, Ma'am'. Pretty and polite. I'm impressed."

"Sign of good breeding," Judy remarked airily.

"Yes, I'm sure," Donna replied, narrowing her eyes to a razor-edged squint. Leaning over the counter-top, she studied the boy’s slim waist; his small, pouty mouth; his innocent, doll-like features. Misha shifted nervously beneath that protracted, unblinking gaze. What was she staring at? Had she penetrated his disguise? He fought down a tide of rising panic, knowing that a clear head was essential to maintaining his cover.

"How old are you?" the older woman finally asked.

"Thirteen, ma'am."

"A little young to be dressed like that, aren't you?" she demanded testily.

Misha almost fainted with relief. The old biddy was referring to his choice of clothing: a skimpy purple tank top that barely reached past his ribs; a pair of faded blue Levis with the top button undone and the zipper split open to reveal his lacy pink underpants. His pert young belly-button was clearly visible, poking out above the denim rim of his jeans.

"Oh, this is just the Brittany Spears look," Misha explained in his high sing-song voice, striking an unconscious pose. "Everybody's dressing like this." Even the boys, he added silently. Mrs D. Addler remained singularly unimpressed by this disclosure.

"Yeah? Well, any daughter of mine went out dressed like that wouldn't sit down for a week." End of conversation. Pushing her glasses back up her nose, Mrs A went back to her Silhouette, dismissing Misha from her thoughts. He bit his lip, wondering if he'd made the mistake of a lifetime, coming down here dressed as a girl.

"Don't mind her," Judy said, placing a light hand on Misha's shoulder, "she's just angry because somebody dropped a house on her sister. Come on, let's get you started. I think we've got what you're looking for over here. We supplied costumes for the Chamberlain Arts Festival, did I tell you that? Anyway, there was a wild west routine in that one: Okalahoma, if I remember correctly ...."

She ushered him away from the counter, prattling on like a country housewife deprived of company. Misha remembered to breath again, realizing that neither of these women were questioning his motives. They'd swallowed his story, accepted him as a girl. His secret was safe. All the same, his complexion continued to darken. At the end of the day, he was still a teenaged boy, no matter how feminine he may have looked. He was taking an enormous chance. If anyone here discovered he wasn't actually female, he'd be -

".... with your underwear."

(ohuh?)

Judy's words sliced through Misha's reveries like a pizza knife through mozzarella. What did she just say? Something about taking off his jeans and t-shirt? No, that couldn't have been right. He'd only come in to have his measurements taken, he didn't need to undress for that. Granted, he wanted to buy some of those petticoats he'd seen through the window, but he didn't need to -

Misha suddenly noticed where his guide was leading him.

(wha -?)

A prickling of goose-flesh thrilled down Misha's naked arms as they approached the accessories display. His warm pink blush suddenly flared a torrid crimson; a tremor ran through his thighs. Excitement filled his tummy like some hot, sweet liqueur. All thought of being discovered was driven instantly from his mind. He had something else to fixate on now, something which froze the breath in his lungs.

She was taking him to the Lingerie Stand.

---