RANSVESTIA

That evening Mrs. Weingarten and Mrs. Rosalia were visiting. My mind must have been so full of the event that before I knew it, I had told them about my date. They made a real big deal out of it and were pleased as punch, especially because I had been one of the first girls to be asked. Practically all the rest of the evening was devoted to the question of what I should wear and whether Peter was good enough for me.

Mrs. Rosalia went into a long instruction session about what she taught her daughters about their relations to boys. It made me blush, when I was told in great detail where I should draw the line. The whole idea of petting with a boy was of course farthest from my mind. And I began to worry a little what I had let myself in for.

"Don't let him paw you, as if he owns you," Mrs. Weingarten stated. Above the knee and anywhere near the bosom was strictly off-limits and to be immediately and firmly discouraged. According to their code a kiss or two should not be avoided, if I felt like it. Imagine ... fat chance...

After some time of this sort of admonishments and teachings, I was blushing so deeply with mortification that everyone noticed and smiled. Girls really were told how to handle boys, apparently, schem- ing how to keep them interested and within certain vague limitations, flaunting one's femininity and charms, without being too obvious.

They decided that I should wear Carmel's gown. It was a pink, long formal with spaghetti straps and with a low neckline that was practically obscene to my mind. Under it would be the beautiful petticoat with the lace apron insert. I shivered with the thought, that I would be exposed to a crowd in that dress. I had not worn it since I tried it on that first fateful Friday. I tried to picture myself, floating about on high heels with that wide, wide skirt flaring about my legs, rustling with the taffeta petticoat and net ruffles underneath. And when I thought how much it was going to divulge of my bosom, I nearly hid my face in shame. I just knew I would never dare. Not in front of my whole class and all their friends, with bare shoulder and a half-nude back. I'd rather be tortured to death. But I lived as usual.

Inconceivable as it might have seemed then, the last Saturday be- fore Christmas... there I was in all my glory. Mother had taken me to

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