RANSVESTIA

shed, police also found a slip and a camisole, but these proved to belong to young Scott who was released when Mrs. Morrisey declined to file charges.

There is no time in my memory when the vision of girls' and women's dainty underthings in a store window didn't delight me, and around the sixth grade I found my longing for feminine clothing irresistable. With increasing regularity, I began to dress in my mother's panties or in my thirteen-year-old sister's pink, rayon bloomers, to either of which I had ready, if stealthy, access. By age thirteen I was spending most of my Saturdays in the downtown department stores wandering through the cologne and cosmetics departments. I didn't dare linger long, but I could make a number of repeat visits throughout the day. Inevitably I began to long for panties and bras of my own, and that is the way I felt that fateful Friday evening when I raided the Morrissey clothesline.

The structure of my life-to-be was instantly established when the officers surprised me in the potting shed. I stood paralyzed in my girls' clothes in the cold glare of a police flashlight. I wanted to die. I could not talk or even think as I was led to the patrol car. Although I begged for my boy-clothes on the ride downtown, the officers would not give them to me. They said they wanted some people in the station to see me, and I knew what that meant. Because I was shivering, they let me put on the slip. Sheer nylon and nearly transparent, I knew it showed everything I was wearing, and I had to walk into the station dressed like that. I would rather have entered naked than in the silky-soft sissy clothes I had on.

I had not realized a police station was such a bee hive. People were everywhere ... policemen, citizens, and worst of all, a large staff of young women clerks. Normal activity seemed to cease upon my en- rance. Typewriters stopped clattering, conversation halted abruptly. Everyone craned his neck to look at me. Their faces expressed amuse- ment, contempt, even pity, but it was clear they all relished seeing me in my awful, compromising predicament People are that way. It was a stunning, overwhelming humiliation. Even when I was led to a more secluded office, all of the staff women trumped up reasons to walk through the room and inspect me. Two of them watched me through a small window in the door the whole time, giggling. I was acutely aware of the sheerness of my white slip. The pinkness of the panties and brassier showed through plainly. As the officers wrote their report, I sat numbed in the ever-growing realization of what was happening to me

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