A T-Girl and a Tomboy Pt. 01

***

Leilani

It's easy to settle back in at home. I have one more semester to finish before I'll have my high school diploma. Still enrolled as an off-campus student, my senior project is to train for the Iron-man triathlon. I need some new clothes and gear, but I still don't have a driver's license. Mom is busy with work, so she gives me her credit card and has Jess take me and Tonya to do some 'school' shopping.

Jess drives to the mall and parks the van in front of 'Papa's Surf Shop', known for their fine custom surfboards and huge selection of swimwear. It's been our favorite store since they opened six years ago. Once inside, the girls dive into the racks, eventually coming back with some wild looking stuff, then they disappear into the fitting rooms. I noticed that most of what they took from the racks could not be worn to school events.

The surf shop doesn't have what I need for training, so I wander around, waiting for the girls. I pick out some shirts and a pair of shorts and wander, looking through the racks of women's swimsuits dejectedly, seeing which ones I would wear if it was socially acceptable for me. A strappy black one-piece catches my eye. Thinking no one is near, I lift the hanger from the rack. It's basically three shiny triangles fastened in an elastic body harness.

"You'd look cute in that," a salesgirl says, startling me.

Quite pretty, she's a native Hawaiian girl, probably in her mid-twenties. Long dark-brown hair, with natural reddish highlights, curls it's way down her slim shoulders and back. Her complexion is like a good mix of coffee and coconut milk. Her friendly, deep-brown, intelligent eyes sparkle with lots of energy. She's wearing cheap flip-flop sandals and has several traditional tattoos showing from under her store logo t-shirt and flower print sarong.

Oddly, I don't feel embarrassed about being caught holding what is basically a fetish body-harness pretending to be a swimsuit.

"You really think it's right for me?" I joke, holding it up like I am checking the size.

"Yeah, really bruh. I get lots of guys buying swimsuits for their girlfriends, but many times I'm sure it's for them. We sell bikini separates if you want."

Did I really just hear her right? I blink, realizing she isn't joking, I put the strappy thing back on the rack.

"Um, well... what would you suggest?" I ask cautiously.

She looks me up and down thoughtfully, walks to the middle of an aisle and takes a bikini bottom from the rack—a silky blue Lycra thong with a darker contrasting pattern along the seams. It's cute and one I would love to wear privately... but why does she think I'd be into it?

"Do you usually recommend bikinis for guys?"

"Only when I see a whale-tail sticking out their shorts. Your thong slipped when you picked up the hanger." She winks and hands me the silky blue bikini bottoms.

My face must be turning red; she laughs.

"Oh, don't worry. I sell a lot of wahine stuff to guys..." she says, using the Hawaiian word for 'women,' "...it could be for his girl or his wife, but you know, often it's his size. I stock extras of the big sizes just 'cause guys buy them. Is there anything you want me to order for you?"

"Well, I like to wear girl's stuff under my wetsuit, it works better than baggy shorts." I'm surprised to hear myself saying this to a stranger.

"Right? It just makes sense. I always wear a thong under my wetsuit and so do some guys I know. Where did you get that Speedo? They're hot. I've seen guys wear them in Australia. I been trying to order them for the store."

"I got mine in Byron Bay last semester."

"You were in Australia? Oh, come here, come see dis."

She takes me to the entrance of the dressing rooms and shows me a poster on the wall of a girl paddling out on a surfboard.

"That's me at Manly Beach two years ago."

"That's you? Nice legs, nice wetsuit."

The picture is taken from the shore, she's wearing a thong-back, one-piece smooth-skin rubber wetsuit, all nicely encasing her body. The sun is glinting off her beautiful island-brown ass, cheeks clenching the rubber thong as she paddles out over rolling waves, laying on her board.

"Do you sell those?" I ask, admiring the wetsuit and checking out her tattoos.

"They're on order, but we've got the O'Neill classic beavertail jacket. Come check it out."

She leads me to the wetsuit section of the store.

"Take off your shirt and try this."

She hands me a smooth rubber wetsuit jacket with red contrasting panels on the sides. I do as she says and put the jacket on, keeping my board shorts over my Speedo. She squares it on my shoulders, pulls the zipper together at my waist and brings it most of the way up. I'm surprised when she bends down and pulls the crotch flap between my legs and snaps it closed.

"Oh, now that's da kine!" she says.

A ripple of sensations course through me, triggered by what she has just done.

She tugs the legs of my board shorts to straighten them and walks me to a mirror. She makes me agree with her the way a skilled salesperson can, turning me this way and that for better viewing. The wetsuit is all snug and cozy and more comfortable than I want to admit. I imagine myself paddling out in it like she is in the picture.

"If you buy the jacket, I'll throw in the bikini."

Somehow, she's hitting all of my buttons in a casual interaction. Feeling validated, I begin to let my guard down.

"Is this your store? You're good," I say, still looking in the mirror.

"Welcome to Papa's Surf Shop. I own it with my brother."

Remembering Auntie Tutu's stories, I ask, "Is the store named for the Hawaiian Earth goddess, 'Papa,' wife of the sky god Rangi?"

"Hey, that's good! You're the first haole ever knew that. Everyone else asks where Papa is at, looking for my dad." The salesgirl checks me out more closely now; she seems curious.

I like what I see in the mirror. The beavertail wetsuit is one of the few things actually made for a guy that can trigger my fetish—and it's all wrapped around me. My heart begins to race and my cock twitches in my Speedo. I'm about to break a sweat standing there in the rubber jacket until I reminded myself that I'm supposed to be shopping for stuff for training.

"I'll come back when I'm ready for a new surfing wetsuit. I'll just get these shirts and shorts—and the bikini for now."

I reluctantly take off the wetsuit and follow the pretty island girl to the register.

"I'm Leilani," she says, "I'm serious about requests. Let me know what you like. I'll order it."

"Thanks, I'm Alex." I consider her offer for a moment. "Can you get some long-sleeve rash-guard swimsuits? I'd surf in one with shorts on warm sunny days."

"Yeah I can, they're already on order...and they're good sunscreen too. When you wear them, it looks good and it protects your skin."

She carefully folds my purchases and puts them into a shopping bag, taking special care to set the bikini bottoms on top.

She says, "Next Saturday we'll be setting up our surf-camp between the pier and lifeguard-tower 15. We'll be taking promo shots and pics for the web store. Our new store-logo surf-suits will be in by then. I'd love to get some pics of you in one. Maybe you could model some other stuff too... Hey, how 'bout dis? If you model for me, I'll pay you with store brand inventory."

I laugh. "You're serious? You want to take pics... in a one-piece? You want me to model for you in a girl's swimsuit?"

"Yeah, you could model some guy stuff too if you'd rather. I'm serious. We're sponsoring Squad Weekend at the Pier, it's a three-day holiday next weekend. I know those girls back in the dressing room, Tonya and Jessica, they're your sisters? They're on the 'Fearless Girls' squad, right?"

"They probably come in here a lot."

"Yeah they do. I ask them before but they don't let me take pictures. How 'bout you, are you gonna do this? If you know some surfer girl-friends, bring 'em, otherwise I'll find some to pose with you. It's easy to find pretty girls to model swimsuits, it's hard to find you. Nice to meet you Alex. Come to our beach camp next Saturday at noon."

She gives me a flier with the event info.

"Mahalo," says Leilani, thanking me with a warm, sincere smile.

"Mahalo, aloha," I say back.

I take the flier, smiling stupidly. I don't know what to say. It's crazy. Why would she want a guy like me for her catalog? Besides, I can't imagine actually doing it. I'm not open about my cross-dressing. Then again, there's something about Leilani... but still, putting on a girl's swimsuit and modeling for a photographer is not something I can let myself do, especially not at the pier!

I thank her without making a commitment and go outside to sit on a bench and think while waiting for my sisters. I love putting on swimsuits and posing in front of the mirror, but in front of a photographer? In public? For the surf shop's online catalog? Ha! No way.

I watch Jess and Tonya through the windows of the surf shop as they talk with Leilani and spend hundreds of dollars in her store.

"Lei-lani..." I say aloud. In Hawaiian; 'lei' means 'flower,' and 'lani' means 'heaven.' A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.

***

Left Out

Even though he stopped coming home years ago, my father has always kept Mom's bank account full. My dad is an upper-executive in a news empire and has condos and houses in several major cities. While my parents never divorced, work had been taking him away so much that he'd just gradually become more and more distant, and eventually entirely absent.

I have no memory of my parents being affectionate with each other, but I also rarely ever heard them argue. Dad was around a lot when my sisters and I were little -- he'd even been fun, but in the last many years we've rarely ever seen him. He is not a family man.

My sisters and I were raised almost entirely by our mom. She is a type 'A' powerhouse who grew up in a household with two moms. She doesn't really relate to men and has never seemed to know what to do with a son.

When we were kids, Jess, Tonya and I were inseparable. If the girls were going somewhere, I was going too. I took all of the same classes and went to the all of same camps whether for dance, gymnastics, or swimming. No one ever objected and I never thought anything of it when I ended up in the same uniforms or dance costumes. Over the years, a lot of people probably assumed my mother had three daughters.

The first negative energy I got about wearing girls stuff came from my father. One night, before Dad left for good, I heard my parents arguing. I was supposed to be asleep, but I had to get up to pee. Tonya was in our shared bathroom so I went to use the one downstairs. I heard voices coming from the den.

My dad was angry, almost yelling. "Damn it, Chris! We only have TWO daughters. Alex is a boy! You're going to fuck him up if you keep dressing him like that!"

My mom was comparatively calm, saying, "Look Greg, it's not me. I'm not making the choices here. He wants to be with his sisters..."

"That's fine, but if you keep letting him cross-dress he isn't going to BELONG anywhere! It isn't normal! He's going to have problems fitting in with society!"

"What? So he should 'fit in' like you do?" Mom asked, "Where do you belong, Greg? Let me know when you figure it out. You have a family you hardly even know. Maybe if you were ever around..."

Mom sounded sad. I was confused and scared and didn't want to hear any more, so I went pee and went back to bed, haunted and confused by what I'd heard.

The next weekend was the last time Dad was home for a holiday. He'd spontaneously invited people from work over for a barbecue in our sprawling, park-like back yard. It was the Fourth of July, and although a bunch of family friends were already planning to come for a swim, Mom welcomed more company.

A friend had sent Mom three USA Olympic team racing swimsuits, 'for the girls'. We were stoked to have the actual uniforms with the flag theme design and the Olympic logo—five different-colored interlocking rings, embroidered on the hip.

Dad was working the grill, sharing drinks with his workmates, paying little attention to us kids until the food was ready. I remember coming up to the front of the line, holding a paper plate with a bun for Dad to put a hamburger on. Realizing it was me standing there in the stars and stripes, he froze mid-sentence.

He looked me up and down derisively with an embarrassed expression, and said, "Go change into your shorts, what's wrong with you?" His guests started laughing, and he laughed with them.

I ran inside and up to my bedroom, devastated and feeling like a freak. Ashamed and confused, I was socially separated from my sisters for the first time. I kept hearing my dad's words, "...he isn't going to BELONG anywhere! It isn't normal! What's wrong with you?" over and over in my head. My understanding of who I was in the world, and in my family, had shifted. I was hurting and I had no male role-model to talk to. I had one clear, new understanding that my interest in wearing girls' clothes was not okay.

Dad hadn't been around much before that day and almost not at all after. At first I avoided him, but since he stayed away longer and engaged less when he was home, we drifted apart.

Mom said it wasn't my fault, but the evidence seemed clear to me; even if I wasn't the reason he left, in my mind, Dad was ashamed of me. I found myself constantly afraid he would show up and find me dressed in some way he didn't approve of, so I hid that part of myself away from everyone.

I told Mom I wanted to quit dance and gymnastics. I got a mountain bike and got into things I could do by myself. Still, when I looked at pretty girls, I noticed how flattering their clothes could be. I wanted to go to events with Jess and Tonya while dressed all cute like they were. I wished I was female just so I could do what I wanted and feel comfortable in the world.

Traveling all during high school had been a great distraction. I kept busy and mostly kept to myself. I'd been casually kissed a few times in my travels, but nothing had compared to what Sam made me feel on my eighteenth birthday at the beach. Now I was aching to share myself with a lover, but I had secrets and desires that weren't 'normal.' I was petrified of being discovered and being shamed again, so I decided to keep to myself. I was not seeking companionship, and I didn't let anyone see me in 'girl mode' anymore... well, not until squad weekend.

***

Home Alone?

For the first time since I got back to California, I have the house to myself. It's spring break, and my mom and the squad have been away all week at a cheerleading training camp on a college campus two hours away. They left on Monday morning and won't be back until after dark tonight. Since I don't have any male friends, and the only girls I know are on the squad, I have been home, entirely alone, for five days.

I've ridden the bus to Malibu beach to go surfing, I've been out for runs and hard bike rides and I've spent a lot of time in our private backyard. With Leilani's crazy invitation still on my mind, I wanted to see if I could get rid of all of my tan lines. Even if I wasn't going to model, I wanted to try to pull off a look of the girls in the catalogs.

When I wanted to cross-dress, I didn't need to invade my sisters' drawers. I could take whatever interested me from the free-box in the garage, wear it for the day and return it after washing. Lots of girls from the school contributed or drew athletic items from the free-box. It was heavenly. I had more options than most sporting goods stores. I'd go surfing with a one-piece under my wetsuit, I'd wear a leotard and a skirt around the house or put on some shorts and go for a bike ride.

With the girls away at camp, I would try to match what they would be wearing and fantasize about performing with them. By Friday, I'd tried on dozens of different outfits and had a huge crush on the girl in the mirror.

I've never gotten into makeup; the feeling of having something on my face, all of the time it takes to put it on, and how easily I can mess it up just doesn't work for me. Besides, I like the tomboy look. I'm not entirely feminine, I just don't think my brain has ever fully accepted that my body is male. I often feel like a boy who keeps forgetting that he's really a girl. Sometimes it's other way around. Saying that it's complicated is an understatement. I know it doesn't quite fit, but somehow relating to tomboys just makes me feel more normal.

I look in the mirror and wonder, if a tomboy is a girl who acts and dresses like a boy, what is a boy who acts and dresses like a girl; a Janegirl? Hmm, no. I'm not into that term and it also isn't me. A Janegirl seems like a boy who is totally femme—I don't act or dress entirely one way or the other. I am a boy but I want to dress like my sisters and do the same activities.

"What am I?" I ask the mirror.

My auburn hair is tattered from the sun and getting tumbled in the waves, but it's long enough for a ponytail that hangs to the middle of my back. I've been experimenting with Tonya's hair products, trying to bring some health back to the mop on my head. Digging through the cabinets, I also found a bottle of Nair hair remover. The hair on my body is already sparse, so in a few minutes and a thorough rinsing, it's completely gone. It feels amazing to be all smooth with no fuzz and no stubble anywhere. I feel and look so clean... I have to go try on a swimsuit.

Feeling free with no one else home, I skip naked through the house, down to the free-box in the garage. Walking by the dance-studio wall-mirrors, I pass places where I can see off into the infinity of mirror land. Dozens of images of my naked self look back at me from every angle.

Whatever else Dad may or may not be, he's always been a good provider. He'd known that Mom's female powerhouse needed the space, and that the garage would never be a man cave. The garage floor is padded like a gym. Natural light comes in through the high windows in the back wall, and the four tall garage doors. It's the perfect place for me to privately hang out 'en-femme'. I can tumble and dance, and I often workout with the squad's training videos. Having taken dance and gymnastics for so many years, the routines are pretty easy for me to follow.

I can watch the clock and a bell will ding whenever a car comes to the gate at the bottom of the driveway, providing a two-minute warning before anyone can pull up and park at the top of the driveway. I have plenty of time to get up to my room and jump in the shower before anyone can get out of the car.

The free-box had started out as a lost-and-found for stuff left in the van, but over the years it has become a catch-all for spare or discarded uniforms for the school's sports teams. It grew from a cardboard box on the floor, to fill an alcove of shelves and wheeled hanger-racks in our spacious laundry room.

I dig through the racks and shelves and find a new-looking varsity water polo suit with 'Tonya B' on the tag. Most of what my twin puts in the free-box is stuff she has grown out of, and since we are the same size it's usually too small for me, but this is marked with a size that usually fits.

Tonya is an athlete. She is the cheerleading varsity captain and has clout. Mom's protégé; a straight 'A' student who wants to make performance her life. Although she loves dancing and managing her squad, she also competes in other sports.

This Friday afternoon, I slip into Tonya's competition water polo suit; a solid red tank with heavy black stitching, a high neck and a zipper in the back. It has the 'Turbo' brand logo and a gold decal of a polo ball in the center of the chest. I step in, one foot at a time and pull it up with a wiggle. I stretch the fabric over my hips and pull it up my freshly-hairless body. I shrug my shoulders into it, soothed by the caress of the fabric as it settles over my body and pulls taught between my legs. It's tight! It barely contains my package but it does so very effectively.