RANSVESTIA

ing I looked quite convincing as the aristocratic gossip I was playing I persuaded myself their private comments were complimentary. The ap- plause I received before the final curtain further reassured me. Getting up to the footlights I stood straight and smiling, then put one foot be- hind me, bowed my head and bent the other knee. Suddenly I realized I was curtseying in a skirt, not the flowing-skirted voile dress I had prac- tised in, and in spite of the flare in the lower part of the skirt it pulled up alarmingly; I wobbled, my knees parting momentarily to regain balance before I rose, blushing furiously. As one woman in the front row, directly in front of me, quickly nudged her neighbor and pointed with a covert finger I was sure she must have whispered something like "Look! He's got a slip and panties on!” or “Aren't his undies cute!” Such over-sensitivity is normal with the immature transvestite who, eventually, should react with indifference or a mental “so-what?" In the legitimate ambience of a stage presentation it is the total effect that counts anyway; furthermore, I have found again and again that many women derive a strange pleasure, even delight, from seeing a man or boy convincingly portray one of their sex on stage. And if their outward appearance is good they invariably assume he is fully attired in female garments. A bra is necessary for obvious reasons while the softer, lighter and smoother underwear is preferable for the hang, fit and movement of the outer clothing. A woman knows this, and any giggling reaction to a peep of lacy slip or frothy petticoat is nothing more than an emo- tional release for her erotic (some say) response to the overall effect. The women in Julian Eltinge's audiences loved him.

My parents came backstage to congratulate me. With them were two girl cousins and their mother; the girls were thirteen and seventeen Shortly, the adults moved over to a group including the director, leav- ing me with the two girls. Immediately, the younger one's eyes sparkled mischievously and she piped, "Do you have girl's bloomers on?“

I could have killed her twice over, since Claire, the older girl, had always fascinated me she was a vastly sophisticated unapproachable girl who made me feel like a child. The two years' difference was, with my being on the younger end, a whole generation gap. The terrible thing was that she was always kind and sweet to me, and I realize now that she knew how I regarded her and that she enjoyed exercising her power, as does any intelligent, pretty girl on the way to womanhood.

But Claire came to my rescue at once. In her most cutting manner she said, “Jossy (short for Jocelyn), you really are the silliest and most

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