RANSVESTIA

In fact they were such fun - for both of us — that she called my mother and obtained a reprive until the following morning. And by then the shabby clothes they made me wear no longer mattered. When Mother would show me pity, I could remind myself that it was through all this that my new life had opened up. When my sister tried to tease me, I thought of the pleasure I had had, and was still to have. When my father was contemptuous, I reminded myself that I had a whole side of myself that he did not or which he refused to see. I served out my time proudly, almost haughtily, and counted it a very small price to have paid.

That was many years ago. In the years that followed, I spent a lot of time at Aunt Helen's. My wardrobe grew. with contributions from us both. In fact it reached a point where I had as many dresses and as much lingerie as she did. I used to go there Saturdays, spending every possible minute there in a dress.

For a while the trips to town continued, pretending I was a girl. As I grew older and my features became more masculine, we had to stop the trips, and confine our pretenses to the privacy of her house.

My father never found out about it. If Mother knew, she kept her knowledge to herself. The Carpenter's line was safe. Although there is nothing that quite duplicates the thrill of climbing a fence and taking down a pair of panties that have been flapping at you all day, it was easy enough to put that thrill aside, especially when there were alternatives like going with Aunt Helen to a lingerie shop and to be welcomed there by a clerk who mistook me for a girl.

Like too many things, I took Aunt Helen's part for granted. not really knowing why she had intervened. It was only a couple of years ago when I talked to her about my plans for marriage that I learned that I was the second man she had known who had enjoyed women's clothes. The first was her husband. She had discovered this only when he died, when she came across his carefully hidden wardrobe and diary. Only when it was too late had she learned of his frustrated yearnings, the things about himself he was too ashamed to tell. She had loved him dearly, his gentle ways, his deep sympathy with her own joys and needs. She found it tragic that so much of him had been kept in a book and a box, hidden and unknown to her and everyone else he loved. In her naive but well-intentioned way she wanted to

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