Many transvestites have their first experiences of cross-dressing during childhood. Often they have mothers who really wanted a girl, and they are told this. For one reason or another such parents will find excuses for dressing their sons in a girlish fashion. In the mildest cases a boy with no Scottish ancestry will be dressed in a kilt and blouse when acting as a page at a wedding. Then with the excuse that  'we can't afford to be extravagant', he will be made to wear it out, or until such time that he has grown so much that it has become embarrassingly short.

At the other extreme a boy will be subjected to 'petticoat" punishment'. Widely used in Victorian times, and still used in isolated cases today. A boy will be dressed completely in girls' clothes in order to punish him by humiliation. This form of discipline can be imposed for days, or even weeks, during the holidays.
 

When I was ten years old my own widowed mother adopted this course. After raiding a local apple grower's orchard, I was confined to the house for a week, and to drive the lesson home my trousers were taken away. I was made to wear a navy blue gym tunic and matching knickers, exactly like the uniform at the local girls' school.

As you can imagine, I loathed it and was horribly self-conscious about my short pleated skirt, even though I took good care that my mother was the only person who ever saw me. During the remainder of the year I increasingly found myself being sent to change into my tunic and bloomers. Mother added white ankle socks, patent leather shoes, and even long brown stockings with garters, to my uniform. I remember the shoes had rather tight ankle straps and seemed humiliatingly childish when I had to wear them.

Of course, I overcame some of my self-conscious feelings in time, and wearing skirts ceased to be an ordeal. One thing I noticed was that I was never punished in any other way, by slapping for instance. Also my mother used to show me a great deal of affection whilst I was in skirts. If she thought that I had got my stockings extra straight, and the rather voluminous box pleats of my tunic really tidy, then I would often be rewarded with sweets. I realised that 'petticoat punishment' was just her excuse for treating me like a daughter rather than a son.

Things came to a head when, on her birthday, I got out of bed early dressed in my complete outfit with extra care, and took her breakfast to her room. She was amazed that I should wear my skirts voluntarily. I assured her that it was a pleasure to me since it obviously brought her so much pleasure.

From then on all pretence of its being a punishment was dropped and it became a sort of 'dressing up' game. She was adept with her sewing machine and she made a number of frocks and petticoats. She even made me a ballet frock, a tutu, very brief with lots of frills. One of the most delightful additions was a kilt. This, I was able to wear outside. She deliberately made it shorter than those usually worn by boys, and I rarely wore a sporran. Her friends remarked that, 'He looks lovely in his kilt but don't you think that it's a bit short and makes him look a bit girlish?' But we secretly delighted in these remarks.

Now I am 20, a student with long hair and the possessor of an extensive wardrobe of minis and fashionable high-heeled shoes. Sometimes my mother has taken me on holiday as her daughter.

K.I.C.  Berks.