About the second week of rehearsals, Mrs Ramsey took me aside one afternoon and gave me a bulky package marked with the words 'Chamberlain Dancewear and Accessories.' I knew what it contained as soon as I saw the logo, and felt my face turning red as she placed it in my hands. Visions of French lace started dancing through my head.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to make you try it on right now," Mrs Ramsey said, reading my expression with a teacher's all-seeing eye, "take it home this evening and see how it fits. There are a few items in there you'll need to get accustomed to, so you might want to start practicing in full costume from now on."

I didn't quite understand what she thought I'd have to get accustomed to, but her words peaked my curiosity. The package was soft but surprisingly heavy as I shifted it under one arm. I shot Mrs Ramsey a questioning glance, wondering what I was going to find when I got home. She indulged me with a faintly amused smile.
"Women's underwear," she answered before I could ask, "it's a little more complicated than what boys usually wear. You might need your Mother around to give you a hand when you try it on".

I cringed at the thought, opening my mouth to protest, but realized she was probably right.

"It won't be anywhere near as bad as you think," Mrs Ramsey said in reply to my unspoken complaint. She turned around and walked back into the auditorium, leaving me standing alone in the corridor. I'd need my Mother to zip me up into a dress! How would I ever live this one down?

"Mom - I can't wear this."

We 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. I stared around in utter amazement, my cheeks tinting with a fine, high color. There were things I'd never seen before, things with hooks and straps and clips that made my pulse flutter just looking at them.

They expected me to dance in that?

Mom was having a good, long chuckle at my expense, taking great pleasure in my evident discomfort.

"Don't look so horrified," 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 me, long suspenders dangling enticingly from her right hand. I backed up, shaking my head frantically.

"Noooooo!"

"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." A soft, pink blush had suffused my features spreading gradually all the way down to my shoulders.

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

"I ... well ... it's ..." my mind had gone suddenly blank. I stared around helplessly, groping for words. A thousand different emotions seemed to be struggling for control of my mind. A 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?" Mom asked, eyebrows still raised.

"Well…yeah."

"And what's so wrong with that?"

I wavered from foot to foot in a perfect rictus of frustration. How could explain this to her: the deep sense of humiliation I was feeling; the pleasure, the shame and the excitement? Part of me wanted this desperately, wanted to clip that sheer black web around my waist and feel its silken texture again my bare flesh. More than that, I wanted to have no choice in the matter. Crazy as this sounds, I wanted her to make me do this, force me to dress as a girl and dance around the stage with my panties on full exhibition.

Of course, I couldn't admit that to anyone.

"They're girl's clothes, Mom," I said, down casting my face and shifting my feet listlessly, "everyone'll laugh at me."

I felt her fingertips touching my face.

"It'll be all right, honey. You'll look fine. I promise."

I looked up at her. Her voice, like her hand, was gentle, encouraging. That was one of the things about my Mother; she could be as hard as tempered steel when she needed to be, but there had always been a sensitive side to her nature. How could I say no to her, even in something like this? I shrugged my shoulders, sighing under my breath.

"All right," I said, unbuttoning my shirt from the front.

To be continued