RANSVESTIA

I took a large gather in the waist and pinned it. Unfortunately it worked. My father then handed me a brassiere, if anything, even more bedraggled. I look imploringly at him, hoping he wouldn't really make me wear it.

"Move," he shouted.

With Mother's help, I slipped my arms through the straps and hooked it around my chest. If ever I had thought it might be fun to wear a brassiere, I was wrong. It hung from me like a rag, an ugly joke.

The panties and brassiere were followed by the rest of the grotesque pile: a garter belt, droopy stockings, a slip with streaks of bleach and one pinned strap, a dress several sizes too large, a pair of women's shoes with one bow missing. I felt like an effigy gotten up to mock myself.

"Well," my father asked, "is that what you like, eh? It'd damn well better be, because that's what you are going to wear for the rest of vacation."

"No," I protested, "you can't make me."

"Oh, can't I. Just try and see what a thrashing you get."

"Not for the whole week," I wailed.

"And longer if necessary."

"I promise," I cried. "I won't ever again."

"You're damn right you won't," he said.

He went to the other room, leaving me alone with Mother. She looked at me with tears in her eyes.

"What on earth, Lynn?" she asked.

"I don't know," I sobbed.

"Mr. Carpenter said you had stolen a brassiere. Is that true?"

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