At this moment Alison came in, wearing black leotards and an old shirt of mine (her costume was supposed to make her a beatnik poet; her hair hung loose, she wore battered sneakers and an old French beret).

She whistled at me as I struck a whoop-dee-doo pose and blinked my eyes rapidly. “I think you'd better get your slip up a bit,” she said. She adjusted the shoulder straps for me. “Hurry up and put the dress on and let me see if it's all right.” I went into the other room, and very carefully got into the dress so as not to crease the chiffon drapery. As I walked back I was thrilled by the way the frilly hem fluttered about my knees. The slip came about two inches above the frills.

“Anyway,” said Alison, “what if it does show? It's a party, not a fashion show. Might be more fun if you did kick your legs about a bit.”

The earrings she dug out for me were great wooden hoops with tiny oranges on them, and into an expanding bangle she pulled half way up my forearm she tucked an orange chiffon scarf. She gave me three necklaces, dangly ones, the longest coming down to my waist. With an eyebrow pencil she drew in great curls down past my ears and out onto my cheeks, and combed my own hair forward into a curl over my fore- head, fixing it in position with hair spray. This, with a dab of color to highlight my cheeks was all the makeup she thought necessary. I pulled on an orange hat, very like the cloche style they used to wear, slipped over my arm the straps of a dainty suede evening bag, and shared Alison's pleasure at my appearance. "You look more feminine than when you used to wear a wig," she suggested. Downstairs, as we had a drink while waiting for the baby-sitter, I fitted a cigarette into the long, fancy holder Alison had produced when I had first worn the outfit, sat back in my chair and crossed my legs luxuriously. The frills opened over my leg as the dress pulled up slightly. I could feel the stocking tops about my thighs, the snug feel of my stretch panties, and the slight constriction of my knickers around my legs. Alison put down her glass. "Forgot something for you," she said. She returned with some scent and applied it behind my ears and at my throat. "There, you're all set."

Our baby-sitter, a pretty eighteen-year-old, nearly collapsed when she saw me. "Where did you get that dress?” she giggled. Alison told her that she'd made it. "And those shoes! They're just right!" She was still giggling, goggle-eyed, as we went out the front door, I with a raincoat over my dress. Although the party was only four houses away, Alison suggested we take the car. It was a dark night, but I didn't argue, tapping