When I was four or five years old, something happened. I must have gotten into my mother's makeup drawer and damaged some of her cosmetics or perhaps I had used her lipstick to scribble on the sink top, or some other such mischief. I really don't recall what exactly provoked my initial experience with the shame-based discipline she became so fond of; I do, however, remember my mother's outrage as she carried me into the bathroom that fateful day.

Mom was furious with me! She screamed and scolded me and — to my horror! — she proceeded to color my lips with a bright red lipstick. There was nothing worse that I could imagine and I can remember crying and struggling to get away, which was pointless considering my age. For the purpose of shaming me, she insisted that I view myself in the mirror. "You want to play with my lipstick? Well, tell me how you like wearing it!"

I fought opening my eyes and looking for sometime, but she persisted and informed me in no uncertain terms that she wasn't putting me down until I opened my eyes and saw myself. She was angry, but she was also laughing. "You're not getting down until you look at yourself." In retrospect it's clear that she found my humiliation amusing.

Finally, I gave in and looked. When I finally opened my eyes, I can still recall my grotesque appearance, tears streaming down a red, swollen face, and my lips and face smeared with a bright red lipstick. I remember a flash of light as my picture was taken. After a few minutes she put me down and wiped the lipstick, warning me that this could happen again.

Well, I can reassure the reader that I never again thought of playing with her cosmetics. Not ever!

When that episode passed, my usual routine of punishments returned: to bed with no supper, sitting facing the corner, having a bar of soap used to wash dirty words out of my mouth and the switchings.

I never felt that being sent to bed sans dinner left any truly negative impressions. The sitting in the corner was all right, though it was later modified by my mother making me wear a funny hat. It wasn't exactly a dunce cap, but more like the kind that jesters wear. It was red, yellow and green and had a tasseled ball at the tip. In retrospect, her intent was to inflict shame and this became a pattern that would repeat itself over and again.

The switchings were used on both me and my brother. When some need for punishment would be indicated, and Mom would tell one of us to go out into the backyard and pick a branch off a group of shrubs. If it was too thin or short, we'd be sent back to get a more hefty growth. We would then have to prepare it by stripping off the leaves before handing it to her. After taking our pants and undershorts down, we'd get it on the buttocks and back of the legs until we both cried. Afterwards, she would hang the switch over the fireplace on two little hooks she reserved for that purpose, a visual reminder of what awaited the next time.

I perceived a theme here that was to become repetitious. There were two phases to this punishment. The first was making us select the instruments of our punishment and the second was the trophy-like display of it afterwards to serve as an embarrassing reminder.

I was somewhat older the first time I got the "bar-of-soap-treatment." I had called my younger brother a little bastard or some such name. I was probably no more than six or seven at the time. Mom overheard this and pulled me back into the same bathroom. "You seem to be have these dirty words coming from out of your mouth." she scolded. "Well let's get a bar of soap and scrub them out" She used a bar of Dove soap to do the deed, and while she later used Ivory or sometimes even brand X, the scent of Dove still causes my mouth to pucker.

I'm now going to switch the train of thought here, so please bear with me.

On just about every Halloween I can remember my mother — for some unknown reason — would plead with me to dress up as a female character of one sort or another. She got her way those first few times as she had a small handful of treasured snapshots featuring me in a variety of childish costumes, Red Riding Hood, a ballerina, a fairy princess, that kind of thing. Once I got old enough to know the difference, however, I invariably declined, usually after a long, drawn out argument that left me in tears and my mother mad as a wet hen. I was all boy, darn it, and I wasn't about to go around wearing a stupid dress, not even for fun!

Mom proved to be a persistent woman, unfortunately; when I was about ten and my brother was about eight, she talked Dave into dressing as a gun moll and I went along as a gangster. She got him an old wig, painted up his face with rather harsh makeup and put him in a full length cocktail dress, feathered costume hat and added some bangles and ladies' shoes. He carried a purse in one hand and a gun in the other. A picture commemorating that night can still be found in the family album.

Mom seemed to be delighted with how cute my brother and I looked together, not to mention all the attention we got from our friends and neighbors. Curious but wary, I resisted the temptation to follow my brother's footsteps. I can't remember the number of times she pleaded with me to dress as a woman, bolstering her requests by recounting how Dave had done it and survived.

Like I said before, I wasn't about to be caught dead dressing as a girl and in spite off the all the promises and sweet talk, I never acquiesced.

Well, for a while, at least.

The incident that really changed how discipline was administered in our house occurred when I was in the seventh grade, making me twelve years old at the time. It was evening and Mom had just got home from her job at the hospital. As usual she wanted to correct my homework. I told her that I had already finished it earlier and packed it in my book bag. She went looking for it and found four packs of unopened baseball cards that she knew I didn't have the cash to buy. I had already asked for extra lunch money that week, telling her I was broke.

She pulled them out and asked where they came from. At first I lied and said that my friend Jim had loaned me the money to buy them. But for some reason she could tell that there was more to the story. She threatened to call up Jim and ask him what had happened when I finally decided to just come clean and confessed to taking them from the local five-and-dime store without paying.

Well, she grabbed me by the shoulder right then and there, marched me out to the family wagon and we headed for the five-and-dime. When we got there, she marched me by the arm into the store and asked to speak to the manager, explaining that her son had something to tell him.

He came and in front of my mother, the store clerk and the manager I confessed how I had hidden the cards under my shirt and taken them without paying. The store manager looked very stern and said something about calling the police to come take a report. My mother seemed to be in agreement and said that maybe it would teach me a needed lesson. Thankfully, things settled down after I had started to cry and pleaded not to call the police. The final disposition at the store was that the cards were returned and that I was not to return for a full month.

On the ride home as my tears dried I regained some of its bravo. I made some kind of quip about a "five-fingered-discount" at the five-and-dime and the next thing I knew …

SLAP!

As I tried to recover from the blow to the side of my face, my mother pulled over to the side of the road and began lecturing me that I hadn't learned anything. That I wasn't taking it serious. That something more drastic would have to be done to teach me "evils of stealing" (her exact words, I remember them verbatim). She was literally screaming at me and I was close to hysterics from being hit and yelled at so much. You would have thought that I'd said I'd just murdered someone. She finally calmed down and pulled away from the curb. The rest of the ride home was totally quiet.

Upon arriving home, I was sent directly to my room. I surmised that there wouldn't be any TV for a while. About thirty minutes later, Mom came into my room and said she had decided how to impress on me the seriousness of my ways.

"If you use your fingers to steal, we'll just have to do something to them so you remember that this is not a joke. Go into the bathroom and wash your hands and scrub your nails and then come into the living room."

When I arrived in the living room, she had me sit on the floor. Sitting on the end table next to her was a nail file, a box of tissues and a bottle of red nail polish. In front of her was an old pea green hassock that we used to prop our legs on when we read or watched TV.

"Come over here and let me see your hands," she ordered.

I knelt in front of the hassock and then placed both of my hands on it. "Hmmm," she mused. "I see you haven't trimmed your nails in some time. This will be even better than I had imagined. You see, I'm going to have you wear red nail polish for the next week to remind you that your ‘sticky fingers' are what got you into this trouble."

I couldn't believe my ears. "Nail polish? Mom, what are you saying?" I asked.

"Your fingers offended and they will help you pay the consequences," she said as she sorted her tools on the table. "Now give me your hand." She pointed to my right one. She then took her file and began to smooth the edges of my nails and where there was enough length, giving them a rounded contour.

I began to plead with her not to do this and told her that I had learned my lesson and that the store manager had been satisfied. I had apologized and promised never to steal anything ever again. She paid me no mind as she began shaking up the bottle. After about thirty seconds I could hear a bee-bee rattling inside and I knew the polish was mixed and ready. I continued to plead my case and tears came to my eyes for the second time that evening. She paid me no mind and unscrewed the bottle. The distinctive odor of the polish hit my nostrils and it left a last impression that today I still associate with an erotic experience. She proceeded to remove the excess polish from the brush on the rim of the bottle and then she took my hand and placed it so my nails were exposed. As the first strokes of red coated my nails, I even compromised to suggest that she could call the police and report it, rather than do this.

 

I sat there sobbing quietly as she went from finger to finger, first on my right hand and then on my left. "Pay attention on how I'm doing this," she instructed. "I'll put on the polish tonight, but after tonight I'll expect you to keep your nails in proper repair with no chips or smudges."

After all ten fingers were tipped in bright red, she had me keep my hands on the hassock for about fifteen minutes, giving the polish time to dry. Then she took a second bottle, which had just a trace of color to it and gave the each of the nails a second coat.

"This is a gloss coat that will both protect and help the polish shine through." She informed me. Again I was made to sit and wait the fifteen minutes for it to dry. To make matters worse I had to pose with my newly painted digits held high as a picture was taken to memorialize the occasion.

"Smile," Mom ordered as she focused her camera. "The quicker you smile the sooner we can get this over with."

By now I had said everything that I could think of to change her mind and I was left staring down at my hands with there brightly colored nails. The sobbing had given way to quiet acceptance, but a sense of shock still kept me from anticipating how things would play out the next day.

I tried not to look at my nails as we sat and watched TV for another half hour or so before it was time for bed. Now she seemed to be a little bit less angry and had gone to the kitchen and poured me my nightly glass of milk. When I went into the kitchen, I asked if I could have a cookie and she surprised me by saying "yes."

As I reached into the jar, I had no choice but to watch my hands with the red polish disappear inside the rim and then emerge again holding whatever. I didn't notice what kind of cookie it was, I just couldn't see anything except for those red, shiny nails. Drinking the glass of milk with the white background only seemed to make the red color more stark. It was about then that I realized that if I left for school like this in the morning, everyone who saw me would immediately notice that I was wearing bright red polish.

I laid awake for a long time that night, wondering what would really happen in the morning. I planned to make one final appeal to my mother's compassion, and thought that perhaps when she slept on it, she would have a change of heart.

How wrong I was. Next morning Mom was adamant that I go to school with my nails painted bright red. What was worse, she had even taken time to sew my pockets on my school pants closed so that I couldn't hide my hands inside of them. When I saw this, I knew there was no hope she would reconsider.

I asked her what I should tell people, and she said "the truth. Tell them that you like having pretty nails, or just make up some answer. I really don't care. It's your responsibility to handle the situation, not mine."

School was the typical junior high, located close to a mile from home. On clear days, I would typically ride my bike. So I loaded my books, notepads and lunch into my book bag, maneuvered my bike around the backyard benches and headed down the driveway, my thumb nails visible as I gripped the handlebars. I dreaded more and more showing up, the closer I got.

To make a long story short, the day turned into a total disaster. Everyone zeroed in on me immediately. How couldn't they? The reaction of the boys and girls differed somewhat, however. The boys taunted and call me fag and homo, and some asked if I was queer. My friends couldn't believe that my mother would force me to endure such an punishment and some said I deserved what I got. They gave me a wide separation.

On the other hand, the reaction of the girls ranged from "Oh, isn't that just so cute?" to "Good grief, talk about a fairy!" More than once I heard "Oh, Greg, you're just so adorable!" and "Sooo, Mommy's little girl got caught shop lifting, huh?"

Even Kathy Wade, whom I considered somewhat of a girlfriend, got into the act. "Geez, Greg, would you like to borrow my lipstick? I'm sure it would go just perfect with your nails. You'd really look cute with a little color on your lips."

The teachers surprisingly said nothing to me, but I could tell they were discussing it amongst themselves. Their sidelong glances and amused smiles were enough to make me feel physically ill.

When school was out, I didn't spend my usual time hanging around and headed straight for home. Once there, Mom was all ears to hear how things had gone. I was torn between not giving her the satisfaction of knowing how humiliating a day it was or maybe pouring my guts out and seeing if I could convince her that one day was enough. I decided to give her the full details and then, once again, plead to be released from of the rest of the week. She actually compromised somewhat and said that she would see how I behaved, and maybe she would suspend the punishment on Sunday. That meant four more days of torment at school but at least it wouldn't continue into the next week.

Thursday was a slightly less intense repeat of the Wednesday. The taunting and teasing continued, but at a reduced pitch. I stayed by myself as much as possible and most of my friends avoided me either out of their own embarrassment or in commiseration of my dilemma.

Friday was marked by my school locker being decorated by a bra suspended in the ventilation slats. It was white with some lace trim and had cups that contained thickened cloth to give it padding. Handling the delicate lace trimmed garment with my red nails gave me a very strange sensation, almost deja vu, and seemed somehow right.

I took it down and rather than throw it away, I folded it and placed it in my locker. I didn't want it being resurrected from the trash bin and returned to hang from my locker. Again at the end of the day, I stuffed it in my backpack and headed straight home.

When I got home I told Mom about the bra on my locker and that I had brought it home. She asked to see it and I gave it to her.

"Hmmm … This looks like it's been worn before. I'll wash it and then I know just the place for it." She hung it on the mantle over the fireplace, the using the fasteners from which switches were displayed. She pinned a paper label to it that read "Greg's Bra."

"This will help you remember your punishment after it is over," I was advised. At the time I didn't ask how long it would remain on exhibition; I knew it would be one or two weeks.

Later that evening she brought out her polish remover and some cotton balls and removed the red color from my nails. I thought that it marked the close of my ordeal but I was reminded that the punishment would end Sunday and only if I continued to behave myself.

I was then sent into her bedroom to pick out a new bottle of lacquer from the top of her dresser and bring it back into the living room. I chose a bottle of lightest color I could find, a pearlescent pink, and took it back to where she was waiting. She then informed me that I was to paint my own nails with the new color, and that if I was sloppy, we had all evening for me to practice until I got it right.

First she had me shake the bottle to mix the pigment. On opening the cap, the aroma of the contents hit my nostrils and the imprint was fixed on my subconscious forever after.

Then I had to practice even strokes, keeping the polish from going onto the edges of skin that bordered my nails. I did all right when using my right hand to hold the brush, but was extremely awkward with my left. I was very unsteady and had to repeat the nails of my right hand no less than a dozen times before Mom was satisfied. By that time I was in tears, I was so frustrated and upset, but she just smiled and nodded and then sent me on my way. So once again I went to bed with shimmering nails.

Sunday night Mom let me remove the new coat of polish but she said the bra would remain displayed over the fireplace as a reminder that stealing was wrong and would not be tolerated.

I returned to school Monday morning and there were a few sideways comments, but after a week they had just subsided and I was back to my old status with most of my friends. The bra came down from the mantle about ten days later and I mistakenly thought that it marked the end of my mother's new form of discipline.

All went well until about nine months later and when it happened it was totally unanticipated.

I had been in an argument — all right, a fight — with my brother and was overheard by my mother telling him to "fuck off." She had been in the kitchen and we were in our bedroom. I hadn't realized that by the time those words came out of my mouth, I was yelling loud enough for her to overhear it from the kitchen.

I heard my name called from the other side of the house and I knew I was in trouble. "Oh shit!" I said in a much lower voice to my brother. "I'll get back to you after I see what Mom wants."

I composed myself as best I could and sauntered into the kitchen. My mother was standing there holding a hot skillet she couldn't set down. Surmising she couldn't physically respond, I answered in a somewhat sarcastic tone, "Well, what do you want?"

Blam!!! Zapp!!! Whatever!!! Next thing I remember was that I was laying on the floor and looking up at her.

"Just who the hell do you think you're talking to?" she asked, while I was still trying to determine which way was up. "If you were younger you'd be spitting out soap bubbles right now. Are you listening to me?"

I nodded my head "yes" and apologized, but it turned out I was too late.

"I've had it with you and your foul mouth!" she scolded. "Come with me!" She grabbed my arm and led me into the bathroom.

The thought that I was going to get the soap treatment flashed through my mind. If that had that been true, I would have taken my punishment and it would have been that. As it turned out she had another idea that turned out to last all day, and one that would be revisited on me more than once.

When we got to the bathroom, she was still holding my arm with one hand, and with the other she opened her cosmetic drawer and pulled out a tube of lipstick. "Maybe if you have to wear some lipstick, you'll find that dirty words don't just come rolling out of that cesspool mouth of yours." With that she spun me around so that she could apply the dark red color to my lips.

"Mom, no, please," I begged. I got a sharp rap on the top of my head for my trouble.

"Hush up and pucker your lips. You don't want to make me mad, do you?"

Well, no, I guess I didn't, so I did as I was told. After carefully painting my mouth with the crimson lipstick, she handed me a tissue and told me to blot. When I had, she looked at the tissue and then told me she was going to reapply it. She left and came back with an white sheet of paper and had me blot my lips a second time. It left a perfect impression of my lips that stood out boldly. Guess where the piece of paper was hung.

"You're to leave this on until I give you permission to remove it," I was warned. "And be careful you don't smudge it on your clothes." she added. In fact, you keep this tube and if I think its fading, you're going to redo it yourself. Here, let me find you a compact to go with it. It has a mirror so you can do it wherever I decide. Put these in your pocket and make sure you have them with you all the time."

"Mom, please, don't do this …." I pleaded. Salty tears welled up in my eyes, which made me feel even worse.

"You're going to do it and if I hear any more argument I'll find you a purse to carry for your lipstick and compact. Now, maybe this will teach you it's unacceptable to use such foul language." And with that comment she turned and left the bathroom.

There I was, standing with the red color just barely visible to my own eyes if I puckered up my lips and looked down. I could smell and taste the distinctive odor of the perfumed lubricant that was mixed with the color. Worse yet, I started to get an erection.

 

"What was going on with that?" I wondered fretfully.

I headed back for my bedroom that I shared with my brother. I knew that I was going be roasted and just decided to get it over. Well I wasn't disappointed. I was met with the expected girlie comments like "Don't you look just absolutely delicious?" "Geez, would you like to be wearing a dress?" and so on. It lasted about ten or fifteen minutes before the repetitive taunting faded and then finally came to an end.

It was interesting that I didn't need to see myself in the to be almost constantly aware that I was wear the lipstick. Some of this may have been the texture or scent. I'm not really sure but it was on my mind most of the day.

At dinner I learned why they called it lip-stick. After my first sip of milk, the imprint of my red lips was clearly transferred to the rim of the light blue plastic cups that we used. It stood there taunting me. Did my next drink go over the already stained portion of the rim, or did I go to a fresh area. I just closed my eyes each time I picked up the cup and tried to ignore it. By the third or fourth sip, the shade of the color was almost gone and I ate the rest of my dinner trying to ignore it.

At the end of supper I started to get up to leave and was ordered to sit back down. "We girls usually redo our lipstick after eating," my mother instructed. "Get out your mirror and lipstick and let's see you try it."

I fumbled for the tools of my humiliation, and got out the compact and tube. I was instructed how to open the compact and hold it in my left hand by the base. Then I was told to use the gap between my index and long fingers of my left hand to remove and hold the cap of the tube.

"Keep the cap there while you apply the lipstick with your right hand." She had me practice this four or five times until I did it to her satisfaction, wiping my mouth with my napkin in between applications.

Then thinking I was through, I again got up to leave. Wrong! I was told that tonight I'd help with the dishes. Mom went to the hallway closet and returned holding a new apron which she helped me put on. I'd never seen this particular apron before, not that I really would have noticed. As Mom held it out for me to slip my arm through the shoulders, I noticed that it had a very full skirt that flared from a wide sash at the waist down to just above my knees. The flare was so full that it hid my legs and feet from view. The sash was trimmed with lace where it was attached to the body of the apron and then trailed off into a solid fabric for tying at the back. She helped me by securing it with a knotted bow. The pattern on the billowing skirt was a repeated print of colorful flowers and butterflies in a random design. The shoulder straps, if that's what one could call them, where wide and puffy, and trimmed with the same lacy pattern as the sash.

"I feel stupid like this," I said truthfully.

"Well, you look very nice," my mother said, an odd smile on her face. "Especially with your lipstick. All you need is something done with your hair and I'd have a sweet daughter to keep me company."

I caught the implication that the apron was more like a dress than one that would normally found in our kitchen. I got to wash while my mother dried. She commented that she wanted all of the lipstick stain removed from my cup before she would accept if from me. When the dishes were done and the sink top scrubbed down, she told me to stand still while she took a snapshot with her camera. I felt like an idiot, but I did as I was told. She then helped me unknot the apron and told me to hang it on an extra hook that was inside the ironing board cupboard next to our stove.

"Just put your new apron next to mine," she said. "I picked it up as a shower present for one of the girls at work, but since it's used, I can't use it as a gift. Actually, I should have done this a long time ago. Congratulations, it's now yours. It'll be there waiting for you next time we do the dishes together."

True to her word, it became a ritual that Mom and I did the dishes at the end of each day. Worse yet, the frilly garment was a continual reminder of just how easily fate could turn on someone.

The rest of the evening was spent doing homework and watching a little TV. At bedtime, I was taken back into the bathroom and shown how to cream off my makeup. Even when this was done, I thought that I could see a trace of the color still on my lips. Mom said that she thought it was just pink from the wiping and to go to bed. Even though I begged she wouldn't let me repeat the process.

"I hope that we won't have to repeat this little lesson," I was lectured. "I've decided that if we do, next time you're going to leave the house and be seen in public. Do I make myself clear?"

I nodded my head and headed out of the bathroom and straight for bed. I tested to see if I could wipe off any additional color onto my pillowcase and was satisfied to find no trace. It was some time before I got to sleep that night.

The next morning, there over the fireplace was the paper with the lip print in dark red, neatly framed and labeled "Greg's Lips" in bold red lettering. I didn't even want to know how long it would remain there.

It was three weeks before it was removed.

It was near the end of my year in the eighth grade, about a month after my introductory section with wearing lipstick, when this form of punishment was revisited on me. This time it wasn't for swearing, as I had become very consciousness of what I said within earshot of my mother. Instead, it was for fibbing. Well, okay, lying. There, are you happy now?

Anyway, the house rule was no TV until all homework was completed. Seeing me sitting in front of the TV watching Star Trek, Mom asked if I was clear to be watching TV. Without really thinking much, I said "yes" and continued watching. I didn't think much of it and later went back to completing my homework. Mom came by my room and saw that I was still at my desk studying.

"I thought you said that you'd completed your homework when I asked you earlier," she said.

"Well, I didn't say exactly that." I knew what she meant, but I also knew if I wasn't careful I was in for trouble.

My mother looked at me without blinking. "I asked you a straightforward question and you implied that you'd completed your homework," she said. "You lied to me."

What I should have done was just owned up and agree with her. Instead I continued to argue the subtle distinction that it wasn't a lie, not exactly, that is. Big mistake. She became progressively more upset as the conversation deteriorated.

"Seems you can't tell the difference between a blatant lie and the truth" was the way the conversation was degenerating. Maybe she was premenstrual, who knows. At any rate, I was told to finish my work and then go straight to bed. Not too big a deal, right?

Well, when the morning came, the bomb was dropped. Yep, "lipstick punishment" again, this time for lying. Only there was a perverse twist this time. It was a school day that had just started. I was informed that I would have to wear lipstick to school and then for the entire weekend. I knew from what happened when she made me wear nail polish to school I was in for a hard time and that no amount of groveling was going to get me out of it.

As soon as I was dressed, I was marched into the bathroom and handed a tube of what I thought was the same dark red lipstick that had been used previously. It turned out that it was a long wearing or "permanent" form that once applied, was advertised to not smear or rub off. She had me apply it and blot as usual. Then she informed me of the long wearing property and that if I didn't try to wash it off, it should still appear freshly applied when I arrived back home. I was ordered not to try to remove it or else.

She handed me a sealed envelope with instructions to deliver it to my homeroom teacher. Then with an unceremonious push out the back door and I was sent off to school on my bike.

This time my reception at school was vastly more brutal, at least from the boys, than just eight months earlier when I showed up wearing the nail polish. This was a different group of kids than had seen me the previous year as there were three different seventh and eighth grade classes at my junior high. The verbal responses I received were "fag," "fairy," "queer," and "homo," this time accompanied by pushing and shoving in a very hostile atmosphere. I had to run into the school to be near the teachers in order to get away from them. I avoided the bullies as much as possible during the day and headed straight home as soon as school was out. I managed to avoid any fights after the first confrontations.

The reaction from the girls was more in line with what I had previously experience. It was pretty much the same comments, like "Hey, Cutie Pie, love you choice of color!" and "Why aren't you wearing any blush, Darling?" One of the girls went a little too far — in my humble (and frustrated!) opinion — when she said "Care for a little spritz of my cologne, honey?" and then proceeded to spray me with a healthy dose of perfume.

"Listen, this was my mother's idea because of a disagreement over homework," I explained. "Do you really think I'd come to school like this if this was my thing?"

There was little compassion for my plight, but at least there was no overt hostility from the girls who'd listen. A few actually seemed sympathetic and let me to explain the events that had led to my dilemma. I tended to hang close to a few of the nicer girls at recess and then later during lunch break in order to avoid having to mix with the boys or to sit alone and become a target of opportunity.

The letter my mother gave me to deliver to my first period teacher was an explanation of why I was wearing lipstick. It explained that I was being punished for lying about having completed my homework and requested the school's understanding and support for this course of action.

I delivered it as directed. Miss Nelson was my homeroom teacher at the time and she called me up to the front of the room while she finished reading the note. "I understand that you lied about your homework last night," she said in a mocking tone.

I had learned my lesson from the prior evening and decided not to argue the fine points and just agreed that I had been caught in a lie. Her next query puzzled me at the time, as she wanted to know if I was wearing anything else. "What do you mean?" I asked.

"Oh, you know … like panties or anything?" she came back. The smile on her face shocked me.

I just hung my head down and softly answered "No."

She dismissed me with a perplexing comment of, "Too bad. Well, perhaps next time. You can return to your seat now." As I sank back into my seat it hit me that she was enjoying my predicament almost as much as my mother.

When I got home, the lipstick had faded in spite of the claim of durability and Mom creamed what remained off my face. She then presented me with a small maroon purse, telling me that it contained some goodies. She had me open it. I found that it contained a fresh tube of lipstick, a small compact with mirror, and an odd tube of a different cosmetic that I didn't recognize.

"Remember how I showed you to hold the compact and put on your lipstick?" she asked. Not waiting for me to response that it wasn't my lipstick, she continued by ordering me to redo my lips with the fresh tube. The color was an iridescent pink tone, more fitting my age, I was told.

When I had complied and blotted with the tissue she handed me, she told me that the other tube was a mascara applicator. Now I was really confused.

"Go on and take it on out and remove the cap. Now I'm going to show you how to use it to darken and lengthen your lashes. This looks much harder than it is," she said softly. She showed me hold to hold the brush and stroke it across my eyelashes. She demonstrated by using her own lashes and then handed it back to me. "Now you give it a try," she encouraged.

"But, Mom …" I whined, "do I have to …?"

I started to say something about all this being stupid, but a glance from my mother shut me up. Rather than argue — See? I wasn't a complete idiot! — I made contact with my lashes and stroked upward the way she had shown me. It was a lot harder than it looked, but I was pushed to continue. Mom told me to keep going it as it takes 5 to 6 strokes to even out the application and get an acceptable result.

"Now the other eye using your other hand," she guided.

I did and she seemed satisfied. I could feel the weight of the pigment on my lashes as I blinked. The face staring back at me in the mirror looked almost pretty. For a boy, of course. I felt almost sick to my stomach.

"Now put the cap back on the brush and back into your purse. I want to see that purse with you everywhere you go between now and Sunday night. Even if you're just going to the bathroom or getting a snack in the kitchen. See, it has a nice little loop that you can fit over your wrist if you have to use both hands. Did you notice that it has your initials engraved on the clasp? Be sure not to set it down some place and walk off without it or you'll still being wearing lipstick to school come Monday morning. Now tell me how your day went."

I told her it went like hell, and watched as her eyebrows perked up. "Okay, it went very ugly," I corrected myself. "I got called fag, a fairy, a sissy-boy, and the girls asked what brand of lipstick I thought tasted the best. I was lucky that I didn't get beaten up. Are you happy now?" I added.

Mom seemed concerned, but only commented that I was lucky that I hadn't gotten into a fight. "You know my rule about fighting. Don't you dare let me catch you in a fight! If you do you'll find out just how much of a sissy I could really turn you into," she threatened.

Then she picked up a hairbrush and ordered me to sit down in front of her. She began to brush my hair, which I normally wore at shoulder length. This was really strange and it took me a few minutes to relax enough almost enjoy it. When the tangles were gone she pulled my hair back tightly and secured it with an elastic band into a short ponytail high on the back of my head.

"You're less likely to stand out as a boy wearing lipstick when we go out for dinner with your hair this way," she explained as she brushed my bangs out over my eyes.

I'm not sure which upset me more, hearing that we were going out to dinner or seeing my hair arranged in such an obviously feminine style. Good grief! Bangs yet. Just like a stupid girl!

Or a fag.

Of course, I had more important things to worry about, too, didn't I? Like trying to stop my mother from making a complete fool out of me. "Mom, please, you can't make me go out in public like this!" I begged. "What if the guys see me again? They'll kill me! I look so goofy, I'll never be able to go back to school again."

"That's not my problem," I was told. "It's your problem. Maybe this will teach you not to be such a liar in the future."

I took a deep breath. I knew I was taking a chance by arguing with my mother, but I was desperate.

"Well, you can go out if you want. I'm staying here." I started to cross my arms in defiance but — WHAPP!! — the next thing I knew I was sitting on the floor seeing stars before my eyes.

"Don't," my mother said slowly and clearly, as though I had a learning deficiency, "don't you ever — never! — talk to me like that again. I am your mother, not some feeble-minded old woman. You don't tell me what you're going to do. I tell you what to do. If I decide to decorate you like a birthday cake and parade you through the center of town, you'll do it and keep your mouth shut. Do you understand me?"

I rubbed my cheek and nodded. My fingers came away wet with tears and smeared mascara.

"You better. Remember, sweetie, you're the one who lied, not me. You're in the wrong, just like that time you got caught shoplifting. I don't know what it is with boys today, but I am not going to put up with it. You keep this up and I'll send you to school looking like Shirley Temple." She grinned at me. "Now, go clean off your makeup and start over again. I want to see fresh lipstick and a pretty smile when you're done, all right?"

I went to the bathroom and did as I was told. It took me a little longer than usual as I couldn't stop crying. I finally got my emotions under control, washed my face and re-applied my lipstick and eye makeup. When I was done I look as stupid as ever, and I felt even stupider.

"Not bad. You're getting the hang of it, I see," Mom said as she inspected my makeup. "Keep it up and you'll be giving the girls at school lessons. Now, give me a pretty smile. Come on. That's much better."

Flash!

My stomach fell as she lifted her little camera up and snapped a couple of pictures. I started to say something, but I knew that arguing was not only useless, but it escalated the risk of provoking her to additional measures. So I did as I figured she wanted me to do: I smiled and pretended everything was just fine. I was then excused to go to my room where I stayed until called to come out and get into the car and go to dinner.

Mom, Dave and I all walked out to the old station wagon and I let my brother get in the front seat while I sat in back. Mom gave me a knowing smile when she saw that I had brought my purse without being reminded. After what had happened I didn't think it prudent to do otherwise.

My brother had overheard the conversation the prior evening and seen me doing my homework with my makeup on, so he knew what was going on. I was beginning to wonder why he was being spared similar little jaunts into femininity. Besides playing dress up on Halloween for Mom, Dave had been given ballet lessons at from age seven to eight; this was because Mom thought that he'd be a natural since he had a tendency to walk on his toes anyway. To the best of my knowledge, he had been a willing participant and it was never considered a punishment. So, when he lost interest, he was allowed to quit.

Maybe his willingness to dress up had desensitized my mother's desire to see how he looked as a girl. Or perhaps Mom felt that his ready acceptance indicated that it wouldn't have shamed him like it had me. Or perchance she just had desired her first born to be a girl, not Dave. Who knew? All I knew was that I was getting penalized for everything while he just sat back and smiled. Even so, he knew better than to overtly taunt me in her presence, lest he risk sharing a similar fate.

For dinner we went to a local McDonald's that was frequented by both neighbors and kids from my junior high. Mom parked the car instead of heading for the drive-through and again, I knew better than to argue about going inside. While I stood staring at the floor, Mom ordered both she and I garden salads and diet Cokes. Dave got what ever he wanted.

"Us girls have to watch our figures," she taunted when I asked why I couldn't get a cheeseburger.

"But I hate diet Cokes …" I whined. Mom just raised an eyebrow and smiled.

The meal went relatively well. I saw several of my friends going through the drive-through and at least two girls from my school came in and got something from the counter and left. I was so scared each time someone I knew appeared, I actually thought about hiding under the table!

Thank goodness, the only people who seemed to notice me were the little boy and girl in the booth beside us who kept peeking over the seat and giggling in my direction. Their mother apologized for their rudeness, and I just grinned an embarrassed smile and told her it was nothing. In retrospect I suspect they were just being silly, but at the time I was convinced they knew exactly who — and what! — I really was.

When we had finished eating, Mom told me to follow her to the restroom so that we could freshen our makeup. At this I finally balked and told her that my going into the women's restroom with her was just asking for trouble that neither of us wanted. She thought a moment, smiled and then agreed that perhaps I wasn't quite ready for that step yet.

"Well, if we had gone, I could have shown you one advantage to wearing lipstick. When we would have come back to our table, there would have been no question whose drinks were whose. Your straw is marked with a pinker shade than mine and you can spot this quite clearly. See?"

"Uh, sure, Mom," I mumbled in bewilderment.

Having just won a strategic battle over visiting the lady's room, I agreed with her analysis. No cause to start an argument over something so trivial as that in public. Instead, I settled on retouching my lipstick and mascara there at the table. I felt so ridiculous as I blotted my lipstick on a napkin. The bright pink lip print stared back up at like an accusation.

All along through this Dave pretended not to pay any attention, but I could tell he was having a wonderful time watching me suffer.

We finished dinner and then headed for the market to do some grocery shopping. I kept my eyes on the ground then entire time we were in the supermarket, terrified that I was going to be seen by one of my friends … if I had any left, that is. I lucked out and managed to get through the evening with my reputation relatively unscathed. The only person who said anything was the girl at the pharmacy window, who just happened to be the daughter of one of my mother's best friends.

"Hello, Rita," my mother said in greeting. "How's college life?"

"Hey, Mrs. Parker, Dave. Oh, college is fine. Two more years to go and I'll be a nurse, just like you and mom. It's hard work, but I like it a lot." She looked at me curiously as I tried to melt into the background, but that proved impossible. "Hi, Greg. Oh, my, you sure look different. Are you acting in a play or something?"

I looked at Mom, who was busy writing out a check for her purchases. A long silence ensued. I took a deep breath.

"Uh, no. We're just, uh … I, er …," I couldn't think of anything to say, I was so embarrassed. "It's sort of a game, I guess."

Mom didn't say anything, but I could see her smiling as she wrote something in her check register. Apparently my misery was her pleasure, and she was going to let me dangle no matter what.

Rita smiled. "A game, huh? What kind of game?"

"A dressup game," Dave interjected. His giggling attracted several smiles from passersby. "He does it all the time. See his purse?"

I shot my little brother a dirty look, only to see my mother giving me one of her own.

The teenaged girl raised one eyebrow and looked me over with a good deal of interest. "A dressup game, huh? Well, whatever … you sure turned out pretty cute. If you hadn't been with your mom, I'd have thought for sure that you were a girl. Especially with lips like those. Cute ponytail, too. You know, you'd better watch out. If any of the boys see you, you'll probably get asked out on a date!" She laughed and gave me a flirtatious wink.

Dave giggled. "That'd be really funny," he said.

My mother tossed me a sidelong glance and smiled. Everyone was having a wonderful time at my expense. I just blushed and went back to trying to blend into the background.

The ride home was long and tedious. A thousand thoughts went through my mind, worrying me to death. Rita didn't know any of my friends, but that didn't make things any easier. I'd known her ever since she babysat me when I was little, and I'd even had a crush on her. For her so see me looking so … sissyish … well, it made me feel just awful. I wondered how long before she'd tell her mom, or maybe one of her girlfriends that she'd seen me out wandering around in makeup and a ponytail and carrying a purse. All I needed was for my buddies to hear something like that; I'd end up eating lunch alone for the rest of my life.

My mother, of course, had a completely different take on the evening's events.

"This was lots of fun, don't you think?" Mom mused as she slowly parked the wagon in the drive. "Perhaps tomorrow you and I can do a more special kind of shopping."

"Just what did you have in mind?" I timidly asked.

"Well, as I understood it, your reluctance to visit the little girl's room tonight was based on your fear that someone would recognize that you're not a real girl. Well, that makes sense, but I'm sure that with a few simple additions to your wardrobe, you'll look convincing enough to overcome this concern. You heard Rita. She thinks you're quite pretty. Pretty enough to pass as a real girl."

My stomach did a flip-flop. "A few additions?" I asked.

My mother smiled slyly. "Oh, sure. A little mother-daughter trip to Sears, a quick run through the teens department, nothing fancy. Afterwards, I thought we could take in a movie. I've been wanting to see ‘Romeo and Juliet' but all of my friends have already gone. I just thought it would be nice if just the two of us did something together for once. Doesn't that sound like fun? A nice mother-daughter day?"

My breathing became labored as I realized what she was saying. I took a deep breath, and then pleaded my case. "Please, Mom, I really don't want to get any girl clothes. I mean, can't you just let me do my time wearing lipstick and see if I haven't learned my lesson? Please don't make me wear anything else."

Once again I fell back to begging since arguing seemed to only strengthen her resolve. I didn't realize it at the time, but pleading probably wasn't a very effective ploy either, as it underscored my vulnerability to this form of punishment. Had I instead merely given her an "Okay" or "Gee, you're right, Mom, that does sound like fun," perhaps things would have turned out differently.

"Nonsense," she came back. "You had a legitimate point at dinner and I agree that taking you out as my girl would be less risky if we weren't worried about people saying anything. You'll see I'm right. Tomorrow we'll have an honest to goodness mother-daughter day together all day long. Now I don't want to hear that you don't want to do this. You know how stubborn I can get when I know I'm right."

My brother had already gone into the house, and I silently opened my door and got out, still wondering exactly what she had in mind. Did I dare ask her the specifics of what she had in mind to buy me? No, I thought. Better to wait until tomorrow rather than have her commit to something she'd have to deliver on.

The rest of the evening was relatively unremarkable and at bedtime I was allowed to cream off both my lipstick and mascara. I laid awake in bed much longer than usual, torturing myself with the imagined possibilities awaiting me in the morning: Was I going to have to try things on at the store? Probably yes. Mom knew that I hated shopping and trying on regular clothes. Would it include underwear? I had a cold chill as I remembered that my teacher had asked about panties. Could Mom possible be thinking along those lines? If so, would I have to wear a dress or skirt instead of jeans or pants? I certainly hoped not, although after supper she still insisted that I wear that dumb apron when I did the dishes. She wouldn't force me to wear stockings, would she? How about shoes? If she made me wear stockings, would she still let me wear tennis shoes? The possibilities were endless and so went my thoughts until I was mercifully overtaken by sleep.

 

Continue with Part Two