This fictional vignette is dedicated to "Carole Jean" and "Juan." Carole Jean is responsible for an erudite and entertaining web site called "The Art of Petticoat Punishment." Juan’s wonderful artwork decorates that site’s home page. The inspiration for this story is Juan’s evocative portrait of a pre-adolescent boy, dressed like a little girl, sitting on a love seat.

 

Stop Digging

by

Nancy Diane Demoiselle

 

Phyllis’ Saturday morning call had surprised me. Actually it wasn’t the call itself. It was the nature of the call that was unexpected

We’ve been talking to each other, both on and off the phone, since our first day in college. As newly thrown together roommates, we had warily eyed each other and our respective wardrobes and quickly concluded that we wouldn’t be an embarrassment to each other. We’ve been best friends ever since.

Saturday morning on the phone was usually reserved for working out the final logistics of our afternoon’s tour of dress shops, makeup counters and shoe departments. We habitually embraced these expeditions with the devotion of nuns and enough attention to detail to rival a spacecraft launching. But not today. Phyllis was begging off on the shopping expedition and inviting me for lunch at her house instead.

For Phyllis, of her own volition, to prefer spending a Saturday anywhere but inside the confines of a succession of cramped boutique dressing rooms made me as suspicious of her motives as a special prosecutor. My misgivings turned out to have considerable merit.

A few moments after pressing the doorbell on her lovely brick colonial home, I watched the front door slowly open to reveal Robin, Phyllis’ 12-year-old son. To be honest, I wouldn’t have recognized him if it hadn’t been for his unmistakable short shock of dirty blond hair. It was unmistakably his, though less tousled than usual and combed in a slight pompadour rather than the urchin-like style he had worn since he was a little boy.

Phyllis’ hairdresser, Michelle, had been cutting it in that mop-top style for years. In fact, whenever Michelle cut Phyllis’ hair, Robin had the time slot immediately before or after Phyllis’ appointment. Robin wasn’t too thrilled with this arrangement, but he lived with it. It was, after all, a unisex salon, although there were many times Robin was the only male customer to be found.

More important, he had the kind of risk-free crush on Michelle that adolescent boys develop for young women who are clearly out of their age range. It enabled him to idolize her o without fear of rejection or having to actually do anything about it. I don’t know if he would have enjoyed his trips to the salon if one of the obviously gay male hairdressers, rather than Michelle, had cut his hair. Based on the circuitous detours that Robin took around their chairs, you would have thought that homosexuality was contagious.

He had recently discovered two more reasons for accepting his tonsorial fate. The first was that he liked girls a lot. The second was that the girls reciprocated, at least to the extent of awarding him their "he’s cute" stamp of approval. By most accounts, especially his own, he was his Sixth Grade’s most eligible bachelor, with no small part of his appeal attributable to those thick strands of filament growing out of the epidermal layer of skin on top of his head.

If the girls in his class could see his hair now, they’d probably change their verdict from "he’s cute" to "how cute." That’s because the right side of his head featured a dainty pink bow bobby-pinned to his hair. The bow was, of course, completely incongruous with Robin’s boyish haircut. Unfortunately for Robin, whose blushing cheeks and pained expression mirrored his discomfort, the hair ribbon went extremely well with the rest of what he was wearing.

Phyllis, who stood behind Robin smiling with all the pride of a Mother whose child had just been accepted at Harvard, had him dolled up (there’s no other term for it) like a little girl. Not in a clownish way, like a boy in sloppily applied lipstick who traipses around on Halloween in a tattered dress once removed from the ragbag.

No, except for the boyish haircut and a little too much makeup for a girl his age, Robin looked exactly like a beautifully dressed little girl attending a fancy birthday party. And the only thing wrong with Phyllis’ exquisite handiwork with mascara, blush, lipstick and (on closer inspection) eyeliner was that it made Robin’s face look a little too much like a contestant in those dreadful children’s beauty contests made famous by poor little JonBenet Ramsey.

Robin couldn’t speak. He was frozen with fear and embarrassment.

"Hello, Robin," I said, trying to crack the uncomfortable silence that blanketed the vestibule where we all stood. "My, don’t you look nice?" The praise passed my lips before I had a chance to think. It was the kind of thing you would automatically say to a child who was all dressed up, regardless of their gender or attire. I would have said the same thing had Robin greeted me in a man’s three-piece suit.

I immediately regretted my compliment. Not because it wasn’t true; Robin did, in fact, look quite sweet. I second-guessed myself because my remark obviously made him even more disconsolate and must have sounded as if I were intentionally trying to be sarcastic.

"Hello Denise," he stammered, the words barely escaping his cracking voice.

Phyllis spoke for the first time. "What do you say Robin."

Robin turned toward her with panic in his eyes on the verge of tears. He obviously knew he was supposed to do something, but had no idea what it was.

"What is going on," I thought to myself.

"Aren’t you going to thank Denise?"

"Oh, thank you," he said, sounding like as mechanical as a Stepford wife. "Mommy picked everything out."

I’m sure she did. Twelve-year-old boys aren’t known for putting together ensembles built around a fuschia party dress, white ankle socks and black patent leather Mary Janes. Nor do they accentuate their fluffiness by carrying a Barbie Doll, like the one Robin cradled under his left arm, or hanging a purse from their right shoulder.

"Dear, why don’t you bring us all some tea, while I explain your situation to Denise. I definitely needed something stronger than tea, but hoped that Phyllis’ explanation would be sufficiently palliative.

"Robin’s being punished," Phyllis said as we sat down across from each other in her living room. She wore heels, a skirt and a nice blouse, not your typical sitting around the house outfit, even for a clotheshorse like Phyllis. As she slipped out of her shoes and tucked her legs under her on the couch, I marveled at how relaxed she seemed under the circumstances.

The again, I was noticeably uncomfortable enough for both of us. I nervously tugged at the skirt I was wearing, just to give my hands something to do. I, too, was a little overdressed, but I had an excuse. I wanted to show off my new shoes to Phyllis.

They were the shoes of the season, a rounded-toe Prada pump with a high chunky heel, and just as impossible to find as they were chic. As was often the case when we saw something that we loved in the pages of a fashion magazine, Phyllis and I played a friendly game of who could find it first. Many e-mails and long-distance calls later, I had finally tracked them down at a Prada boutique in Los Angeles, and the shoes had arrived at my front door that morning by Federal Express.

"Well that’s a comfort," I said in response. "I wouldn’t want to think you were dressing him up like that as a reward. What did the poor thing do? "Steal some nuclear secrets."

She started to answer, then noticed my shoes. What took her so long, I wondered? Has she lost her sight as well as her senses?

"Oh, I hate you," she said. "Where did you find them?"

I resisted the temptation to tell her that she should spend more time looking for pretty shoes for herself rather than her son. Instead I basked in the glory of my victory, regaling her with my shoe-search saga, embellishing the story in excruciating detail at every opportunity.

Robin entered the living room about half way through my tale. He was carrying a fancy tea set on a silver tray. Phyllis just nodded, and he served us, then carefully placed the tray down on the coffee table. Phyllis nodded again, and Robin sat down on the love seat across from my chair.

I could see Phyllis glancing at him out of the corner of her eyes. My eyes followed hers, and we watched Robin use both hands to smooth his short skirt out before daintily sitting down. Pressing his knees together, he crossed his legs at the ankles, and gently placed his hands, on his right thigh, one softly resting on top of the other. For the first time, I noticed that his nails were colored a pale shade of pink. It was a scene right out of Shirley Temple goes to Charm School.

"That was perfect, Sweetie," Phyllis said.

Robin’s movements had, indeed, been impeccably dainty. I wondered how many girls his age could sit down with as much grace and femininity.

"We’ve been practicing, haven’t we?" The question was rhetorical. The information was meant for me. Robin mumbled an answer, but Phyllis already on the to the next topic.

"Denise wants to know why you’re dressed up like a little girl. Would you care to tell her?"

The next few minutes were sheer torture for Robin. He wasn’t eager to reveal his transgression, and I knew why. I didn’t have any children of my own and was quite close to Robin. I treated him more like a favorite nephew than the child of a friend. He knew me well enough to dread my reaction to his escapade.

As is the rule with men, regardless of their age, Robin had done something foolish and insensitive. Given men’s penchant for hurting women in a myriad of ways, it wasn’t surprising that the victim was a girl in his class. She had the temerity to resist his efforts to kiss her, especially since she had been forewarned by the class rumor mill that he thought her to be ugly and was only doing it on a dare from some of his more charming male colleagues. When she rebuffed his clumsy advances, he exacerbated his boorishness by calling her an especially vulgar euphemism for a woman’s reproductive organs.

Robin didn’t actually use the word in retelling the event to me. But I didn’t have any trouble figuring out that it began with "C" which rhymes with "B" and "T," which stand for "Big Trouble." Which is exactly what Robin found himself in, having compounded his mistake by saying this word within earshot of his teacher, a woman who brooked no foul language. Especially when its source was an12-year-old boy who probably didn’t know what the word meant, and surely didn’t know that women detest being called this more than any other epithet.

Phyllis, I eventually learned, heard all the ugly details at a conference with Robin, his teacher, and the school’s guidance counselor. Robin was to be suspended for three days and put on probation.

The school’s disciplinary action was mild compared with Phyllis’ reaction. She was apoplectic.

The drive home from school began with her screaming "How could you embarrass me this way?" She continued haranguing him for a half-hour after arriving home. For added emphasis, she washed his mouth out with soap, before culminating her tirade with the words that led to his current predicament. "Maybe if you know what it’s like to be a girl, you won’t ever resort to such despicable behavior again."

Unfortunately for Robin, I am a woman who loathes the "C" word to an extreme. It had been an integral part of the limited vocabulary possessed by the moron I was dumb enough to marry and even stupider enough to stay with for almost two years before getting a divorce. Having been subjected to its sting on more occasions than I care to remember, I was visibly upset when Robin haltingly arrived at this part of his confession.

He couldn’t help but notice the reaction on my face. He could see that I was terribly disappointed with him and realized that there was now little chance that I would intercede on his behalf with Phyllis. He started to cry, the tears being all the more noticeable as they smeared his mascara.

The crying brought a stern rebuke from Phyllis and another indignity for Robin. At Phyllis’ prompting, he opened his purse and remove a tissue (pink, of course) and some mascara. Phyllis dabbed his eyes dry and was about to repair the damage when the phone rang.

"Would you touch up his mascara," she said, handing me the tube and brush. ‘I’ll be right back."

Robin had the dear-in-the-headlights look on his face.

"Please don’t," he pleaded. "It’s too embarrassing."

I steadied his face, grasping his chin with my left hand, surprised at how stern my grip was. I didn’t really approve of the way Phyllis was disciplining Robin, but I had to admit that it would probably be a long time before Robin used any obscenity again.

"Hold still, and look up." My words were sharper than I intended. A few deft strokes of the mascara wand, and I was done. As I snapped the wand back into the mascara tube, I caught myself examining his lashes to make sure I had done a good job. How strange? What did it matter, I thought. He certainly isn’t concerned about lumps or enough curl.

Robin didn’t know what to say, so he idly picked up the book lying next to him (Little Women. Nice touch, Phyllis.) She was still on the phone so I took the opportunity to take a long look at Robin.

He was perched on the edge of the love seat, his eyes lowered. At first glance, everything seemed to be in as perfect order as his primly crossed ankles. The only visible sign of dishevelment was a trace of a taffeta petticoat peeking out from underneath one side of his dress.

But as I continued gazing at him, it became clear his demure posture was a still-life pose, completely devoid of any fortitude. With his made-up face, bright of color but absent of spirit, he resembled a week-old carnival kewpie doll, as abandoned looking as the dingy midway the morning after the circus has left town. He looked vulnerable and forlorn, so resigned to his fate that he was past being terrified, like Cinderella after her evil stepmother locks her in her room to prevent her from trying on the glass slipper.

I suddenly felt very sorry for him. "Robin, look at me."

He raised his head enough so that I could see that his eyes were moments away from welling up. "I’m sorry," he said. "I really am."

"I know you are. You know you’re still my favorite little boy."

"I am, even dressed like this."

"Even dressed like that." A faint smile crossed is lips. "Besides, you’re not going to have to dress like that forever."

"Mom said for the rest of this weekend and all next weekend."

"But didn’t I give you a chance to get out of dressing up next weekend? It was Phyllis. She had finally finished her phone call.

"Well you do have a heart," I said. "What does he have to do? Walk on hot coals?"

"So you think the punishment doesn’t fit the crime," Miss ‘I’ve- Raised-So-Many-Children-I’m-an-Expert.’ "I bet he never does anything like that again, and that’s the point isn’t it?"

"Phyllis, he’s 12 years old. He made a dumb …

"Cruel," you mean.

"Alright, he made a dumb and cruel mistake."

"So maybe we should take him out for ice cream instead."

When Phyllis and I started squabbling like this, it was a good sign. We weren’t very good at fighting. Usually one of us eventually cracked a joke, which gave us the chance to laugh with and at each other. I could see that Robin was relieved, too. For a few moments, at least, he was no longer the focus of his mother’s wrath.

"Okay, you’ve convinced me that the world will be a better place if Robin has to walk through it in a dress two weekends in a row." Robin winced. "But because you’re such a tolerant mother, you are going to let him off the hook next weekend if …"

"Go ahead, Robin," Phyllis instructed.

"If I agreed to let someone besides Mommy see me like this today."

"And your mom chose me."

"No, I did. I didn’t think you’d make much fun of me." He was so sincere that I wanted to hug the poor thing. Phyllis, however, gave me a look that said, "Don’t you dare."

"Aren’t you leaving something out," she said to Robin.

"Oh, Mom."

"Maybe we should talk about your wardrobe for next weekend," she said with an air of exaggerated resignation, as if to say, "well I guess you want another weekend in dresses, after all."

"Do you think Robin’s old enough for heels," she asked me, making sure he got the message before turning to him. "There were two conditions to your reprieve as I remember."

Robin’s eyes darted back and forth between Phyllis and me. "I had to agree to dress like this in front of you and ask you if you would help Mom . . . "

"Help whom," said Phyllis.

"Help ‘Mommy’," he said, correcting himself, "teach me how to act like a . . . a . . . perfect little lady."

"You poor thing," I said. The last thing he wanted was anyone’s help in learning how to become a little powderpuff. Then again, what choice did he have?

"I don’t want to have to do this again next weekend."

Now the option was mine. I could strangle Phyllis, my strong preference. Or I could refuse to participate in her scheme and probably doom Robin another few days of perhaps even more diabolical humiliations. Or, in return for a commutation of his sentence, I could agree to spend the rest of the day helping Phyllis turn her son into more of a Barbie Doll than the one he was now fidgeting with.

"Robin, I need to talk to your mother alone for a few minutes. Do you think you could excuse us?"

"You may go to your room and play with your doll," Phyllis said. "But don’t you dare think about playing with any of your boy things."

"Yes, Mommy." He started toward the stairs.

"Robin, where are your manners?"

He stopped, turned around and executed a surprisingly delicate curtsy.

That was way too over the top for me. He was barely out of earshot when I launched my first assault.

"Are you crazy?"

"I thought we just agreed that you weren’t going to tell me how to raise my child?"

+

"Then don’t make me an accomplice to your ‘enlightened’ methods."

"He chose you, I didn’t."

"Phyllis, really now. Who else was he going to choose? Maybe a girl in his class, so she could take some photographs and share them at ‘show and tell’."

"Do you think I’m that cruel?" The snap suddenly faded from Phyllis’ voice. "Well, do you?"

I hesitated. "I don’t know what to think," I said with a sigh.

"Well let me make it even more complicated for you," she said, moving closer to me and lowering her voice to a whisper. "He’s not suffering as much as you think."

My puzzled look spurred her on.

"Robin’s much too nice a boy to do what he did," she explained. "It’s so out of character that it must have been premeditated. I think there’s a part of Robin that wants to dress up like a girl, but he’s afraid to admit it to himself or anyone else, especially me. So he pulled this stunt, hoping that I would punish him like this."

"Phyllis, I think you’re really reaching," I replied. "Even if you’re right about his motives, how in the world did he know you were going to punish him by making him dress up in girls clothes?"

Phyllis didn’t answer right away. There was a trace of guilt on her face.

"Unless," I said, answering for her, "you’ve punished him this way before."

"Not exactly," she said.

"Well, then, exactly how exactly." I wasn’t sure I liked what I was hearing, but my tone slipped from one of interrogation to one of genuine curiosity and fear -- for both Robin’s and Phyllis’ psyche.

"Little things," she said, relieved to confess. "I’ve made him play with dolls before."

"And the clothes?"

"Oh, this is the first time I’ve really dressed him up," she said, "but I’ve made him put on lipstick and an apron and help me with housework a few times."

"Why? It must be awful for him? I’m surprised he hasn’t run away."

"Now you’re being melodramatic."

"Does he just go along with it?"

"No, but that’s my point," Phyllis said. "The first time I put lipstick on him, he begged and pleaded not to wear it. He was very convincing. Since then, though, I have the distinct feeling that he protests just enough to fool me – and himself – into thinking he’s being forced to do it. That’s why I went to such lengths this time; I thought an overdose would shock him out of it."

"And has it," I asked.

"I really don’t think so," Phyllis replied. "Oh he’s definitely embarrassed, but I think it’s mostly because he knows he’s not supposed to like it. Whether it’s actually a horrible punishment for him isn’t as clear. "You’ll see for yourself if you stay."

"I’m really not sure I want to be a part of this," I said. It just doesn’t seem right. Aren’t you afraid?’

"Of what?"

"Come on, Phyllis."

"That he’ll grow up to be gay?"

"Of course," I said.

"You weren’t worried about that when he was five and you couldn’t wait to help me dress him up like a little ballerina for Halloween. If I remember correctly, you made a two-hour round trip to your sister’s house, just to borrow your niece’s ballet slippers."

It was true. Phyllis and I had taken great delight in turning Robin into a little fairy princess. "That’s not fair," I said. "He was only five, and lots of little boys dress up like girls on Halloween."

"Not the way we dressed him up. You couldn’t tell he was a boy. Every time he rang a doorbell and was mistaken for a girl, we were thrilled to pieces."

I had no troubled remembering that night. He looked adorable. We made such a fuss over him that he insisted on sleeping in his tutu and tights to bed. I remember thinking that it was like Cinderella not wanting the clock to strike twelve.

Phyllis had suggested the costume. I eagerly cooperated, rationalizing it as a cute and harmless indulgence, but knowing full well that her motives weren’t entirely guileless.

She had desperately hoped for a daughter throughout her pregnancy. Partly because she wanted a soul mate, an accomplice in sugar and spice and everything nice, but mostly because her husband had wanted a son with equal fervor. And at that point in their marriage, the last thing either of them wanted was to give each other what the other wanted. So the more he talked about a future All-American, the more she dreamed of a future Miss America.

When Robin was born, Jack was elated. But the presence of an heir to the throne did nothing to improve their marriage. Phyllis loved Robin, even though he wasn’t the girl she wanted. Jack loved sleeping with other women. That he now had a child didn’t deter him from his philandering. Phyllis knew about Jack’s dalliances, but she didn't know what to do about them.

Then Jack solved everything by colliding head-on with a semi at 80 miles per hour. He was driving recklessly because he was late for a rendezvous with his secretary at a motel as tawdry as his life.

Fortunately for Phyllis, Jack was as good at making money as he was bad at being faithful. His legacy to Phyllis was a substantial inheritance. Robin got an equally estimable trust.

Determined that Robin was not going to be like Jack in any way, Phyllis promised herself that money was the only thing Robin would inherit from his father. The little boy who had flounced up to his room a few minutes earlier was making a very good case that Phyllis was a woman of her word.

"Phyllis, there could be a lot at stake," I said, breaking out of my reverie.

"I know," she said with a sigh. "I could be really screwing up his life. But as strange as this seems, I honestly don’t think I am. I know my son. He’s asking for help – my help -- and I’m asking for yours."

"What do you mean," I said.

"It doesn’t take a Sigmund Freud to realize that this whole situation says as much about me as it does about Robin," said Phyllis. "And it certainly isn’t your typical mother/son relationship. I’ve decided to that we probably need some counseling. Before I take that step, though, I need to know what Robin really wants."

I interrupted her. "Because you already know what you want."

"I enjoy seeing him like this far more than I should," she admitted, tears streaming down her face. "I realize that, but it’s not fair to say that this is what I want – not if it’s going to damage him emotionally. I’ve lost all objectivity. Please spend the weekend with us. Robin will let his guard down with you. By tomorrow, you’ll know whether he needs help, or I do … "

"Or you both do," I said, finishing her thought. "Wouldn’t it be easier to just tell him that you’ve decided he’s been punished enough and that he can get out of those clothes?"

"This isn’t about punishment anymore, and you know it," Phyllis said. "It’s about whether my son wants to be a sissy and why I don’t seem to mind if he is." She was sobbing now.

"Okay," I relented. Let me talk to him alone for a few minutes."

As I climbed the stairs toward Robin’s room, I found myself wiping tears away from my own eyes. It’s no wonder the cosmetic business is so lucrative. As long as there are women, there will be tears; and as long as there are tears, there will be a need to freshen up. Almost reflexively, I checked my makeup in a hallway mirror.

Robin’s door was open. He was sitting on his bed. He looked up at me, only to have his tear ducts open, too. Almost automatically, he reached for his purse and pulled out a tissue.

"Here, let me do that," I said, sitting down beside him and gently taking the tissue away from him. As I dabbed his tears away, I said, "Quite a mess you’ve gotten yourself into?"

He could only nod.

"Have you ever heard of the saying, ‘if you’re in a hole, stop digging’."

He shook his head from side to side.

"Think about it," I said. "What would happen if you were in a hole and you kept digging."

"The hole would get deeper," he said.

"And would that make it easier or harder to get out of the hole?"

"Harder, I guess."

"Now let me ask you this," I continued. "What do you think is the fastest way to get out of that dress. Acting like a stubborn little boy digging away at that hole with all his might. Or acting like a dainty little girl who needs to be rescued?"

"Like a girl." He couldn’t bring himself to repeat the word ‘dainty’."

"And what if that girl had a friend like me to help pull her out of that hole? A friend who would never ever tell anyone about this."

"You won’t."

" I promise."

"But I don’t know how to act like a girl."

"Well aren’t you lucky that I’ve had a lifetime of experience?"

"But what if it doesn’t work?"

"Not a chance," I said squeezing his hand between mine. "I just bought a new pair of shoes. I’m not about to fall in the hole with you and get them all dirty."

He laughed. I imagined it was for the first time in quite awhile.

"Monday morning is two whole days from now," he said. There was despair in his voice.

"All the more reason to get out of the hole and enjoy yourself."

"Yeah, sure," he said. "I’ve never had so much fun."

"You’re digging again."

"I don’t understand."

"Will the time go faster if you dread every minute of it or if you relax and enjoy it? It’s called going with the flow."

"You mean I should act like I enjoy dressing up in girls’ clothes?"

"If you can’t beat ‘em, join em."

"But what if someone found out?"

"Look, your Mom’s not going to tell. I’m not going to tell. And my guess is that you’re not going to tell, either. So who’s to know?"

He looked hesitant and afraid. "Think of it as a game," I said. He still looked skeptical. "May I tell you a secret?"

"Uh, um."

"It would be fun for me, too."

"It would!" His mood brightened again. "Why?"

"Oh, I don’t know. Let’s just say that girls, even grown-up ones like me, are never grow too old to enjoy playing dress-up."

"I’ll try," he said. He didn’t seem too sure.

"It won’t be that hard," I said, taking his hand and leading him out of the room. Besides, you’re off to a good start?"

"What do you mean," he said.

"I mean that there are a lot of real little girls who aren’t nearly as pretty as you look right now." He blushed deeply, the color flowing quickly over his face, like a flower blooming sequence on high-speed film.

We were at the top of the stairs. I stopped and squatted down in front of him, so that our faces were at the same level. "You’re going to be fine," I said kissing him on the forehead. "It’ll be over before you know it. Now let’s go show your mom how lucky she is to have such a sweet little . . . " I paused and winked at him . . . "daughter!"

He grimaced at the very idea, but as he descended the stairwell, I thought I detected a slight bounce to his step.

 

 

 

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© 2001 by Nancy Diane Demoiselle. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.