J is for JosiebyBethanyJ©
A series of stories with transgender themes which I hope will be of interest to those who like women, or would like to be a woman. Which includes me!
It was a Friday. I remember that. Actually it's not really surprising, it was always a Friday, the day my stepfather worked late and I got home from college early. It gave me time. Which wasn't really important that first time though it was later. And on that first occasion not much happened. Though it did later. That first Friday I'd got home a bit early as usual, got my homework sorted, made myself some tea and started on things for Dad. And I was sat thinking.
About Dad of course. Not my real Dad, but the man I'd always known as 'Dad'. The man who had, five months before my birth, consoled my Mum after her new husband had been killed in action. And who had, exactly a month prior to my birth, married her. So Mark was the only father I'd known. And I'd stuck with him after Mum had left. I was worried about how he was getting on without Mum. It was difficult for him, obviously.
Mum had left us about six weeks earlier. She just left. Just walked out. Just like that. And after all Dad had done to try to improve things for her. We'd just moved house, only about 30 miles, but it made travelling much easier for him, he'd moved much nearer to his work. Which smashed his travelling time and gave him much more time for the family every day, the very late nights home from work would stop. And it was a much nicer house in a much nicer area anyway. And it cut my travelling time to college too.
But we hadn't known about Mum's affair, that she'd been seeing this other man quite often while Dad and I were both out. And the move took her further away from HIM. So she decided, well, they decided, to do something about it. She just left. One day Dad actually got home before me and found the house empty and a note. He showed it to me. He was crying. Apparently she and this other man, Terry, had decided to go away together and had done just that on the spur of the moment.
It hit Dad hard, for a couple of weeks he just kept phoning friends where we used to live, trying to find her, to persuade her to come back and so on. But to no avail. Eventually he had made contact, she'd made it clear she was much happier and didn't really love Dad and she and Terry were probably going back to his own area, which was in the States somewhere. After that Dad did settle somewhat though obviously he still missed her. He and Mum married when she was very young after my real father was killed. Mark was quite a bit older, really he had been infatuated to start with and that had turned in some sort of love.
The problem was -- all those years later, even after the initial problems and indeed even after Mum had left -- Dad was clearly still besotted.
That Friday, after Dad had yet another difficult week, I'd gone upstairs to look along the road to see if his car was coming yet. And there in his bedroom, I'd noticed that the main wardrobe door was open. Lots of Mum's clothes were in there, she'd left lots of them when she'd left in a hurry. We assumed, and realised later, that her new guy was well off, and indeed that turned out to be the case.
But it was something else in the wardrobe I'd noticed, there, on the top shelf, Mum's wig. Her longish red-haired wig. The one she'd bought a few years earlier when she'd had her longish red hair cut very short one day and then regretted it immediately. So she'd worn the wig for several months.
I took it down and looked at it, and the original slightly silly thought had come into my mind. I slipped the wig off its base and put it on. The elasticated inner bit stretched over my head, I looked in the mirror and brushed the strands down the side of my face into place. Then - totally daft really - I took one on Mum's lipsticks from her little drawer and smeared it over my lips. Not heavily, not very well, but it did have an effect. It made me look a little like Mum. I wondered what Dad would think, then I saw his car pull into the drive below.
As Dad came in I was standing at the foot of the stairs, wearing the red-hair wig and the lipstick.
"Well Dad, how do I look?"
He just stood and looked at me. He did realise that I wasn't serious, and he smiled.
"Wow, Joseph. You really do look rather like your mother. But hadn't you better wipe the lipstick off, I passed Duncan on the way down the road."
Hell. Duncan. He'd said he would come round and help with my Maths coursework if I'd let him borrow one of my computer games. I dashed back up, threw the wig into the bedroom and wiped the lipstick off quickly. And then I heard the doorbell.
After Duncan had left and after Dad and I had finished our meal, he did mention my dressing-up again.
"You really do look a bit like her though she always did like to wear more make-up. You'd need to go quite a bit further, with the clothes and the make-up and so on. I think you'd actually look quite a lot like her. So why did you do it?"
"I just saw the wig, Dad. I thought you might like to be reminded of her. Just a bit, that is."
And we said no more, but what Dad had said stuck in my mind.
'Go quite a bit further, with the clothes and the make-up and so on.'
Maybe I should. Which is why, two weeks later on a Friday again, I'd gone up to the bedroom and got out the wig again. And put it on. And an old pair of earrings Mum had left. And one of her sweaters. And a pair of her jeans over a pair of short nylon socks and her shoes. When I'd looked in the mirror I admit I had been disappointed. Then I realised that the clothing was right but the shape wasn't so I'd undressed again and put on one of her bras and some panties, stuffing the 'cups' of the bra with some rolled-up socks.
After that I'd inspected myself in the mirror again I'd been much more pleased. And even more so after I'd carefully applied some of Mum's make-up like Dad had said, just a little foundation over my face and some eye-shadow and lipstick. Yet again Dad had timed his return just as I'd finished so I didn't have time to reconsider what I was doing. I just grabbed one of the handbags she'd left behind and went down the stairs, carefully in the unfamiliar heels.
"Hello Dad. Well - what do you think?"
And this time Dad had looked surprised. His eyebrows rose -- he nearly smiled.
That was all he said. He paused.
"You said I'd need to do more makeup and wear Mum's clothes. So I thought I'd give it a try. Well?"
Dad realised he had to say something. I mean, there I was, his son, standing there dressed in his wife's clothes and I think looking an awful lot like her. Which is almost exactly what Dad said.
"You certainly do look an awful lot like her, Joseph. I like the shoes."
Now quite why he said that I'm still not sure. Maybe he thought that wearing high-ish heels was a significant departure from the norm.
"And have you got a stuffed bra inside there, Joseph?"
OK, another departure. I pulled the sweater up to show Dad, then I spent a few minutes walking round the room and 'posing' for him. I thought I'd better do something about the dinner like I always did on a Friday.
"OK Dad, shall I go and change new?"
"Er - OK then, Joseph, sure."
So I did. I had got the slight opinion, when I'd asked Dad about changing, that he'd seemed just a little reluctant. OK so it was a weird thing for me to do but maybe he didn't mind, maybe he actually liked it in a way. And it was when we discussed it briefly a bit later that I got that opinion again.
"Look, Joseph, you obviously like dressing up and so on. So how about getting really dressed up and doing the 'Italian'? The Friday after next?"
"OK then. Good idea."
I didn't ask about it. I didn't need to. I knew exactly what Dad meant. We'd often done that in the other house and a couple of times after moving, me and Dad and Mum before she'd left. Dressing in best clothes and Dad bringing home an up-market Italian take-away from one of the restaurants in town, and us sitting down at the table with the best dinner service, and wine and all the trimmings.
That would be good, yes. But the next day I began to wonder just what Dad had meant about 'getting really dressed up'. He was out at the time, I couldn't ask directly. But he did seem to have quite liked my own dressing-up efforts in a way. Maybe I should do that again? Was that what he meant? But if I did I couldn't just wear jeans, not for a 'special occasion'.
So I had another look, more carefully this time, into Mum's wardrobe, at all the clothes she'd left behind. Literally she'd only taken the clothes she was wearing and a very few more, with some jewellery and passport and so on. Most of her stuff was still there. And as I looked through her make-up drawer I noticed - Dad must have shoved it in there - the letter he had shown me when she'd left. And her wedding ring. She'd left that behind too.
I spent the next week thinking, then decided to do something about it. Just before going to college one day I asked Dad about the money I'd been saving, towards a new PC.
"Would it be OK if I used it to get something else instead? Just my money, I mean."
"Sure, Joseph. Sure."
He wasn't really listening though, he was reading some work stuff. He'd started to bury himself in his work a bit, partly to get over Mum, I think, and partly because there was a chance of a promotion coming up. One of the Regional Managers was retiring and Dad reckoned he was in with an outside chance of the job. So he did spend quite some time in the evenings working, trying to make sure his bosses wouldn't have any reason at all to find fault.
I had several hundred saved up altogether but really I didn't want to spend it all yet, not on a PC anyway. Because I'd discovered something else. On a website, a company selling things specially for people who liked to dress up, in all sorts of clothes and uniforms and so on. Some of them were, I thought, rather rude. And some -- well! They were way beyond 'rude'.
But others looked good, maybe just the sort of thing I could use. I'd just set up my Pal-Pay account so I used it to send in an order. I knew some of Mum's stuff would be useful for me but there were a few extra items I'd need, if I was going to do it properly.
So I did it properly. When Dad had left on that Friday morning he'd reminded me.
"And don't forget, Joseph, we're doing Italian tonight."
I hadn't really needed reminding. I really had been planning it for nearly two weeks even to the extent of warning Duncan I was cutting college that day because Dad and I were doing something special. I didn't say what, I really couldn't tell my best mate I was going to dress up in my mother's clothes.
And really Dad hadn't said exactly what either. It has occurred to me several times since that things would have turned out oh-so-differently if Dad and I hadn't each jumped to conclusions. Both of us really, me in not properly understanding exactly what he meant, and him in not asking me to explain things. So I was pretty sure what his 'doing Italian' meant. And after his comments when I'd worn Mum's jeans and bra, and shown him what I'd done in terms of make-up and so on, I thought I knew what he wanted me to do. And I was more than willing to do it.
The breast prostheses I'd bought off the Internet were, of course, not necessary. But I wanted to do a good job. So when I'd found the company dealing in items for dressing up as a woman, I'd bought a few items to help me in my task. And as I finished my day-long session that afternoon, this time an hour or so before Dad was due home with the Italian, I took some time to inspect myself in the long mirror in his bedroom. I really did look like my mother! The falsies-and-basque combination really did give me a good-looking feminine figure, the black tights and high-heeled shoes I'd bought added to the effect.
I was very pleased with my own purchases. And the false fingernails too, I'd stuck them on with the glue provided, longish scarlet nails, the sort of thing Mum did on special occasions. The wig, or course, was the one I'd had before as was the jewellery. Since Mum hadn't taken those items I assumed they were not real, just gold-effect, but the clip-on earrings I'd bought and the chain round my bare neck did also add to the effect. And the skirt and the blouse too were both Mum's. The skirt was a slightly darker blue denim effect and the blouse was white and rather frilly.
It felt good wearing them and the skirt went quite well, I thought, with my black tights. Just above the knee though with a bit of a slit up the right leg. But it showed off my figure, and my newly-acquired 'boobs' very well. When I'd finished my make-up I squirted 'Diorissimo' behind my ears and into my 'cleavage'. I grabbed Mum's small black clutch bag and spent some time, rather as before, posing in front of the mirror. I knew, Dad was going to love this!
And then, very carefully in the extremely high-heeled black stilettos, I made my way downstairs. I had half an hour or so, and used my time in getting out the crockery and the cutlery, in doing the fancy folded napkins Mum always used to. I put the glasses and a bottle of wine on the table, basically getting everything Dad and I would need to have a good meal. And to have fun, too - I wondered exactly what he would say when he saw me.
But when he came in - I heard the door open and braced myself - he just dashed upstairs.
"OK Joseph? Sorry, bathroom. I'll shower and change while I'm here. OK?"
"OK" I called out.
He hadn't even seen me, just went straight up the stairs. I pottered around in the kitchen, and put the plates in the oven to warm up. I heard movements above, and the shower, and about fifteen minutes later I heard his footsteps as he came down.
"OK Joseph. Ready? .................. Oh my God!"
He'd seen me. He really had got changed, got himself 'dressed up.' Not just in a jacket and tie but in his best suit, the one he only ever wore for christenings and weddings and so on.
I had to speak, to break the awkward silence.
"You look very handsome, Dad," I said, in what I hoped was a quieter and more gentle version of my own voice.
"You look - gorgeous, Joseph, you really do. I just didn't expect - this!"
"Well, when you said 'go Italian' I thought it might be a good idea to dress up like I did when you said it, when I wore Mum's clothes before. Except if we were really going to dress up I should maybe wear a skirt."
"But that skirt, Joseph. I got it for your Mum a couple of months ago, just before she left really. She's never worn it to go out in."
I'd just realised. What Dad always did when he came in with a take-away was to put it into the oven to keep warm. And of course he hadn't.
I turned to face the fully laid-up tableware, nice plates and glasses, all the best things, what we usually did. He saw it.
"What I meant was we could actually go out to the Italian, that one we've seen in town by the market. I'm sorry, I didn't realise. But Joseph, I'm not kidding, you look so much more like your mother now, really, absolutely gorgeous. How have you - you know?"
He was looking at my figure, at my slim waist and my bulging 'breasts', and at the effect the sheer black tights and the black stilettos had on my legs. I told him about ordering things from the Internet, about the breast falsies and the shoes and so on.
"Well, Joseph, you really have done a remarkable job. And your make-up too, it looks so good."
"Well, I hope it's all right. I practiced a bit in the week and copied one of your photos of Mum. To try to get the eyes right, really, that was difficult. I suppose I was trying to look a bit older than I am really, to look like Mum, you know."
And -- Joseph -- how do you feel? You know what I mean. Dressed like that?"
I had to think for a moment. Actually getting dressed up had really been so much fun. And I felt ....
"Actually, Dad, I feel great. I feel -- different. Really girly."
I think I probably blushed. Dad smiled.
"I suppose I'd better go out again, see if I can get something from the restaurant. I didn't order anything though. Mind you, Joseph, if you went in looking like that, nobody would know."
I didn't reply straight away. Then I voiced the thought that had leapt into my mind.
"Well, we could if you like. Go there for dinner I mean."
Now it was Dad's turn to be dumbstruck. For maybe ten seconds we just stood there, a little embarrassed, both of us really.
"Surely you don't mean ....". He paused for quite a long time. Thinking. "Would you like that, Joseph? I mean, are you sure? It would save me a drive, really, nobody would know. They'd just think you are a woman. You don't have to say anything, I can order. It would be a laugh, Joseph. Are you game?"
Well, it had been me who suggested it.
"Just hang on a minute, Dad," I said, walking past him towards the stairs.
Up in the bedroom I completed my 'transformation'. I'd needed one final thing - I slid Mum's wedding ring on. It was just a bit tight but it was OK really. When I showed my Dad he just smiled, perhaps a little weakly. Maybe seeing that ring on my finger just reminded him of what, or rather who, he had lost. Well, for tonight at least in a sense, his wife was back.
As he drove us into town Dad was telling me what to do, to let him do all the ordering and so on, that sort of thing. And when we pulled into the kerb by the old market he came round and opened the door for me, then lent me a hand as I struggled a bit to get out in the unaccustomed short skirt and high heels.
As we set off towards the restaurant I kept hold of his hand, tightly. There weren't many people around thankfully but just as we passed a couple of young men waiting for their bus I heard - a wolf-whistle! I automatically squeezed my Dad's hand at the sound, he just turned back to look and then grinned at me.
"I told you!"
And just as we were going to go into the restaurant Dad turned to me again.
"OK then. I can't really call you Joseph, can I?"
I really hadn't thought about that but a sudden thought occurred. Mum is Jo, that was one of the reasons I had been 'Joseph'. So. Something a bit similar, I thought.
"How about Josie? And shall I call you Mark?" I asked quietly.
"If you have to, yes. But please, I'll do all the ordering and so on. OK - er - Josie?"
We were inside the restaurant. I just smiled a 'yes'.
The actual meal, and everything around it, went superbly. Dad knew I'd go for a particular pasta dish, I always did, he ordered a linguini thing for himself. And we had one glass of wine each with the meal. And, that first time, actually being seen and being treated as a female rather than just putting a few of Mum's clothes on like I had done before, it was fun. Actually it was more than fun.
The way the waiters fussed around us, the way they paid particular attention, called me 'madam' and all that, it was just a really satisfying experience. And as we were about to go, as Dad was paying the bill I just took his hand in mine and gave it a small squeeze and whispered 'Thanks.'
It was all going so well. Dad was going to reply but we were interrupted.
"Hello Mark. Hello there - er - Jo, isn't it? Good to see you. I didn't know you came here?"
Dad looked horrified. As well he might. I knew this man. I'd seen him a couple of times, walking out of the office with Dad at the end of the day when Mum had driven us to pick him up, when his car had been in for repair or testing or something. This was Mr Franks. Dad's boss.
"OH - er - hello Neil. We were just leaving. Er - no, we've not been here before but it's good."
He was making a little sense, coping quite well in the situation. I don't think Mr Franks noticed.