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Prairie girl
by Chrissie LaFemme
The driver from the orphanage sighed.
The ranch buildings in front of him were in a dilapidated
state and stood out like a sore thumb in the beautiful but
remote countryside in which it was located. He had driven for
almost three days to reach the place.
It was not the ranch though that depressed him it was the
thought of meeting the rancher and his wife that made him
feel heavy hearted. He had seen them when they had visited
the orphanage three months before. He remembered the
rancher's rough manner and equally rough temperament.
His wife had been different though, quieter, more subdued;
'close to tears' was how one of the cooks in the orphanage
had described her. 'A high-born lady who'd married beneath
her' was the consensus in the kitchen.
The rancher approached him with a scowl on his face.
"Who are you and want do you want around here?" he demanded
in a menacing voice.
The driver explained who he was and why he was there.
"They're in the back," he concluded, indicating the back of
his wagon.
The rancher gave him a smug look.
"Ah yes, we've been expecting them," he said. "Me and my wife
have no kids of our own so we'll treat them real good!"
"OK, you guys, we're here," the driver called, opening the
canvas cover.
Three boys clambered out and looked around them.
"Hey! What gives? There's three of 'em!" the rancher
exclaimed in surprise. "The lady in the orphanage said we
were only getting two?"
"No, I was told three. Mrs. Mellon ... she's the matron ...
she picked out these three," the driver said, scratching his
head. "You say you were told you were getting two: want me to
bring back one?"
"Uh? No, no, no, ... my memory must've slipped me ... yes, it
was three ..." the rancher replied hastily. "No, we'll take
'em."
The driver took out a piece of paper from his pocket and
asked the rancher to sign the form. He handed the rancher a
sealed letter which he said was from Mrs. Mellon to his wife.
Before the driver left he warned the rancher that if any of
the boys escaped the others would be taken from him.
He wished the boys good luck and as he clicked the horses
away on the long journey back to the orphanage he saw the
rancher giving one of boys a cuff on the side of the head. He
wanted to turn around and take the kids back with him but he
knew it wasn't possible. He sighed, he had seen this
situation so many times before: young boys from the orphanage
being used virtually as unpaid laborers by unscrupulous
ranchers. But the orphanage was under pressure to make space
for new arrivals so the older children were placed wherever
they could.
++++++++++++++++
The rancher told the three cowering boys in front of him he
was to be known as Boss. He showed the boys to their
quarters, a large, draughty building, set a short distance
from the two-storey house where Boss and his wife lived.
Two make-shift beds had been set against one wall. There they
met the rancher's wife, Queenie, who was putting blankets on
straw mattresses.
"They've come," Boss grunted to her.
"There's three of them -- you didn't tell me about a third
one -- I've only made beds for two!" she said sharply.
"Well, you'll have to make another bed cos' we've got three
now!" her husband retorted.
The new arrivals felt the woman's piercing blue eyes
scrutinize them.
"Look at that small skinny one!" she hissed, pointing at the
boy in the middle. "He'll never last a day out with the
herds! You're a fool for taking him!"
Boss looked at the boy.
"Damn orphanage -- I asked for big strapping guys and I get
these two and this little weakling!" he cursed loudly. "The
driver said that woman in the orphanage ... what's her name
... ?"
"Mrs. Mellon," his wife interjected.
"Yeah, Mrs. Mellon ... picked them out. Uh, that reminds me,
the driver said this was for you," Boss said, taking an
envelope out of his pocket and passing it to her. "She's
doing this to spite me -- I never liked that stuck-up bitch
anyway!"
The other two bigger boys looked protectively at the blonde-
haired boy in between them. He hardly came to their shoulder
and compared to him they were built like giants. They were
used to manual labor from their days in the orphanage but
their friend looked like he couldn't lift a stone.
Boss continued to rent the air with his curses. The
atmosphere in the building became ominous and threatening.
The two bigger boys feared the enraged farmer might do their
companion harm.
"I'll take him."
"You'll what?" spluttered Boss.
"I'll take him," his wife repeated, quickly putting the
letter she had been reading into her pocket. "He's plainly
not suitable for outdoor work. He wouldn't last two days out
there!"
"What would you do with him?" Boss demanded.
"I have plenty of work for him," Queenie assured him. "With
three extra mouths to feed I'll be stretched to my limit, but
with him I'll be able to get through the work."
Boss looked at her incredulously.
"He'll work with me ... end of story," he snarled.
The woman fell silent but the two bigger boys saw that her
eyes never left their blonde companion.
The next day the three boys accompanied Boss out to where the
herds were grazing; the work was hard and unremitting. The
two bigger boys coped with the workload but their smaller
companion struggled. Despite Boss's curses and wallops the
boy was not able to work any faster.
When they returned to the ranch that evening for dinner the
boy was hardly able to eat his meal from exhaustion. The
woman had a broad smirk on her face as she served dinner.
The same pattern was repeated the next day; this time Boss
found himself losing his temper at regular intervals. It was
clear that the boy was not up to the physical work in the
fields.
Boss hated to be proven wrong by his wife and especially in
front of the two older boys, Homer and Dutchie. But he was
losing so much time over the slightly built youngster that he
had no choice. He decided, however, to keep the boy one last
day in the field to at least prove his wife wrong that he
wouldn't last two days.
During dinner time Queenie asked the boy to show her his
hands.
"I've never seen such soft hands on a boy!" she exclaimed in
wonderment, taking his hand in hers. Seeing that his hands
had cuts and bruises she offered to put ointment on them. But
Boss roared angrily at her to mind her own business.
Boss was to regret his decision to keep the boy one extra
day. He spent so much time supervising the smaller boy that
hardly any work was done that day. When they arrived back at
the ranch that evening he yelled impatiently for his wife.
Queenie appeared in the kitchen doorway, a knowing smile
playing on her lips. Grabbing the small boy by the collar
Boss shoved him in her direction.
"OK, you're in charge of him, do you hear! If he steps out of
line or tries to escape, you've had it!" he roared at her.
Queenie turned pale.
"I'll see that it doesn't happen," she replied, recovering
her composure. Then, beckoning to the fair-headed boy she
said: "In here, Blondie."
Homer and Dutchie watched as their younger companion shuffled
slowly towards the kitchen.
"I'm in charge of him now, Boss: he's my responsibility now,
OK?" Queenie asserted.
Boss shrugged dismissively: "You can do what you like with
him, he's useless!"
Homer and Dutchie saw the woman give the boy a gloating,
almost possessive, look as he passed by her. She followed him
into the kitchen and shut the door behind her.
++++++++++++++++
A routine was gradually established. Queenie was first up and
when she had dressed she would go out to the building where
the boys had been locked in for the night and wake her fair-
haired assistant. Together they would prepare breakfast for
Boss and the two bigger boys, Homer and Dutchie. Then they
would fill bags with food and drink which Boss and his
helpers would have for their mid-day meal.
They would wash the breakfast dishes when Boss and the two
boys had saddled up and departed for the day. Next they would
tidy the house and collect items for the laundry. Washing was
done in a large tub for which they had to collect water in
buckets from the well.
After lunch they would feed the farm animals before going
inside to prepare the dinner. Dinner was served at six,
sometimes it was later. They always knew when Boss and the
two boys were coming: the barks of the dogs would herald
their arrival. After dinner Boss would lock the two bigger
boys into their quarters for the night. Queenie and Blondie
would then clear away the table and wash the dishes. When she
was satisfied that the kitchen was clean Blondie too was
brought out to the out-house and locked in with the other two
boys.
Then Queenie would sit with Boss until it was time for bed.
Sometimes they would talk but mostly they sat in silence, she
sewing and he smoking his pipe or drinking.
++++++++++++++++
Though they were in each other's company all day they rarely
spoke apart from Queenie giving Blondie instructions and he
acknowledging his understanding of them.
He liked to keep his distance from her: he showed that by
chatting and joking with Homer and Dutchie at meal-times. It
irked her that when he was in their presence he liked to
behave as if she didn't exist.
Though he was not their equal in size he liked to demonstrate
to Homer and Dutchie that in other ways he was as manly as
they were.
He rebuffed any attempt she made to initiate conversation.
She knew very little about him apart from that he had come
from a large family. She sensed he wanted to keep his past to
himself. When she discreetly questioned Homer and Dutchie
about his background she discovered that they knew very
little about him either.
What they had said about him was that in the orphanage though
he was small in stature he made up for it with his derring-
do, 'I'm-afraid-of-nothing' behavior. When volunteers were
needed for a raid on the orphanage's kitchen, Blondie was the
first to offer his name.
This trait in Blondie, she noted, had been slow to surface
but when it did it was Boss, not her, that was the target of
his antics. He started mimicing Boss behind his back -- much
to the startled but amused delight of the two older boys.
Then he started playing pranks on Boss: cutting his meat into
baby-sized bites and covering his knife and fork with gravy.
It was predictable that Boss would eventually respond to
Blondie�s taunting with his fists. When one evening Boss
could take no more from Blondie it was she who stepped in to
prevent him from a savage beating.
"Just keep him under control!" Boss thundered, slowly sitting
down. Smoldering with fury, he jabbed a finger over her
shoulder at Blondie: "Try to smart-ass me once more and I'll
..."
She had pushed Blondie back into the safety of the kitchen
until Boss had cooled down.
Her intervention set a pattern. Blondie would provoke and
tease Boss safe in the knowledge that if a thrashing seemed
inevitable she would step in to intervene. Occasionally, if
she thought Blondie had over-stepped the mark, she would
allow Boss to box his ears.
She found the situation slightly amusing. Here was Blondie,
the smallest of the three boys, taunting Boss -- something
Homer and Dutchie would never dare to do. Yet at the first
sign of trouble he hid behind her skirts. It amused her too
that she could control his behavior; if he over-stepped
himself he knew he couldn't rely on her for protection.
Mostly though, she wished he would not put her in these
situations of confronting her husband.
On the other hand, she had little cause for complaint as
Blondie was a good worker: he kept the kitchen neat and tidy;
he did his chores promptly and without protest; he had become
a good cook (a fact appreciated by Boss and the two boys). He
seemed glad not to be out working with the others though he
never admitted it. Homer and Dutchie liked to tease him about
his soft, easy job as a 'maid'.
Queenie though she was glad he was a willing worker found his
presence increasingly uncomfortable. She realized deep down
she was afraid of him. She feared that Blondie would try to
escape: sometimes she woke up in a sweat at night thinking of
what her husband would do to her if he did.
Her other great fear was that some day he would attack her
before escaping and by the time Boss returned home he would
be long gone. In this scenario she pictured herself as a
defenceless female at the mercy of a vengeful man.
The responsibility of watching him all day was a much greater
mental strain then she had anticipated. She tried to reassure
herself that if he did attack her she would be able to defend
herself. She knew she was stronger than him: she had just
been able to lift a bag of corn while he could barely budge
it.
Yet there were times she was glad he was around. Before his
arrival she had a long day on her own and even when Boss was
at home in the evenings sometimes he hardly spoke to her.
Though she only gave orders to Blondie at least she was
communicating with another person. She was uneasy though
because she never knew what was going on in his mind. She
imagined he must hate her -- particularly for making him do
women's work.
++++++++++++++++
One day Queenie sent him out at noon to feed the hens. When
he hadn't returned after a quarter of an hour, cold fear
clutched her heart. She ran outside calling him: there was no
answer.
Trembling with fear she searched the out-buildings. To her
horror she could hear her husband's dogs in the distance; she
realized that he must be coming home early. Panic-stricken,
she intensified her search for the missing boy. Even if she
saw the boy, she said to herself in a panic, with her long
skirts she would never be able to catch him.
She had searched all the out-buildings bar one: an old shed
where a young calf was tethered. Opening the door cautiously
she caught sight of a movement beneath the straw. She pounced
and dragged the boy out of his hiding place.
Queenie was white with anger. The boy lay shaking with fear
on the ground while the calf tied to a ring on the wall gazed
at both of them in dumb curiosity.
What happened next was like a blur to Queenie, a searing
anger exploded deep inside her obliterating all her natural
instincts. She seized a length of rope and struggle though he
might, Queenie soon had the boy's wrists tied behind his
back. She dragged him back to the house and then to the spare
bedroom upstairs. There she opened a large empty closet and
pushed the boy in locking the solid wooden doors behind him.
She rushed downstairs to meet her husband to explain what had
happened.
When she opened the kitchen door there was no sound from the
fields. No dog barked, no voices could be heard. With relief
she guessed the dogs must have been chasing a coyote or
something and had come close to the house.
Still trembling with shock, Queenie sat down in the kitchen.
It would be another five or six hours before Boss would be
home. She knew she had been lucky ... very lucky: the boy had
probably heard the dogs too and had come to the same
conclusion that she had -- which was why he had hidden in the
out-building. He was probably even more afraid of Boss than
she was. If it hadn't been for the dogs barking he would have
run off and she wouldn't have had a chance to catch him in
her long skirts.
The knowledge though that she was physically stronger than
the boy comforted her. She had been able to tie him up and
drag him into the house. But Blondie would run off again, she
thought to herself, of that she was sure. Then she would have
to face Boss's rage -- there would be no lucky escape like
today.
How then to keep him from escaping? Queenie knew she couldn't
keep him tied up or locked away all day. How could she
shackle him so that escape was impossible?
++++++++++++++++
When Boss and the two bigger boys arrived back for dinner
that evening their eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.
"What's ... what's ... going on here?" Boss spluttered,
wiping the sweat from his face.
"What do you mean?" Queenie replied nonchalantly.
"I mean ... him! What's he doing in those clothes!" her
husband roared, stabbing a dirty finger at the fair-haired
boy.
"That's his uniform ..." she started to reply.
"Uniform! Why the hell does he need a uniform like that?"
Boss interrupted in a demanding voice.
"Because I say he needs a uniform and don't forget I'm in
charge of him!" she flashed back angrily.
Boss was momentarily taken back by Queenie's sharp retort.
"He doesn't need a dress for a uniform!" he fumed.
"Whose in charge of him?" Queenie demanded, her hands on her
hips. "You or me?"
"You are. But --"
"And if he's going to do a maid's work then I say he's going
to dress in a maid's uniform," she interrupted.
"But --" Boss repeated.
"But what?" she challenged.
Boss, tired and weary from a day's toil and confused by his
wife's maddening logic, banged his fists on the table.
"Where's my dinner?" he shouted.
Queenie nodded to the fair-haired boy who started to serve
the meal. Dinner was eaten in silence except for Boss loudly
slurping his soup. The two bigger boys each got a cuff from
Boss when he caught them staring at his wife's helper.
++++++++++++++++
"I've put them away for the night," Boss grunted to his wife
after dinner. She and Blondie were clearing away the dishes.
Queenie nodded.
"I'm going to keep him in the spare room from now on," she
told her husband, indicating the boy beside her. "That way I
can get him up earlier and make him work longer and harder."
"How long are you going to keep him in that?" Boss asked,
pointing at the boy with distaste.
"In what?" Queenie asked, feigning innocence.
"In that dress, damn you!" Boss exploded.
"For as long as it's needed," she replied insouciantly. "Why
should it bother you? You said I can do anything I like with
him ..."
Boss looked at her in astonishment; then he threw his arms up
in disgust.
"Have it your way," he replied wearily. "I think you're
crazy."
He sat down on his favorite chair and picked up a half-
finished bottle of whisky. Soon his snoring resounded
throughout the house.
"Upstairs," Queenie ordered the humiliated boy. "I'm not
finished with you yet."
++++++++++++++++
The next morning Queenie was up earlier than usual. She
washed and dressed while her husband slept on in the bed.
She went down the passageway and taking a key from her pocket
she quietly unlocked the door to the spare bedroom.
The boy was still asleep. While he was rousing she secured a
length of cord to each wrist. Then she released the rope that
tied his hands to the head of the bed. Before he could react
she dragged him out of the bed and forced him to face the
foot of the bed. Despite his struggles she effortlessly tied
the cord attached to his left wrist to the bed-post and then
the other wrist.
"What are you going to do with me?" he asked sullenly, his
face suffused with the twin humiliation of being bound and
finding himself still wearing her clothes.
"You'll see soon enough," she replied curtly.
Queenie first took off his night-gown, untying each wrist as
necessary to take off the garment.
Then she passed a cotton chemise over his head and pulled it
down over his slim frame. She released each wrist at a time
to do the sleeves and then retied it to the bed.
Next she attached a pair of black stockings on his legs and
held them in place with garters.
The boy's face fell as he saw what was coming next.
"No, no, no, not that, please, please, ..." he beseeched.
"Do you know how tight I'll make it? Tighter than yesterday!"
she sneered, placing the corset around his middle. She
started lacing it at back, tugging each lace as hard as she
could.
"That's tight enough --" he gasped. "I can hardly breathe!!!"
Queenie redoubled her efforts. "I want to <tug> show off
<tug> your figure!" she panted.
Next she put on five petticoats, trimmed with lace and
ruffled to give them volume, followed by a purple dress. The
dress was put on in the same laborious way as the chemise:
she would release one arm at a time so she could put it
through the sleeve before retying it to the bed-post and
doing the other arm.
She buttoned up the dress at back and taking a wide leather
belt she placed it around his waist with the buckle at back.
Then she pulled the belt through the buckle as hard as she
could so that it cinched at the tightest notch-hole possible.
The belt fitted so tautly around his waist that she couldn't
even insert her finger in between it and the dress. More
importantly, it was so tight fitting that he wouldn't be able
to pull the buckle around to the front to open it.
"There's nothing like a dress to make you quit thinking of
running away! Just wait till you get used to the idea of a
skirt limiting the length of your step!" she breathed
triumphantly in his ear. "And I've fixed that you won't be
able to get out of that dress without my help!"
Next came a white, full-length apron and then his feet were
squeezed into a pair of lace-up ankle boots.
Finally, she worked his blonde hair with a brush and then
pinned on a snood, a loose bag-like ornamental net which held
his hair at back.
"Why are you making me wear these clothes?" he cried
piteously as she untied his wrists. "Why are you doing this
to me? What are you going to do with me?"
Queenie gave him a hard, spiteful look.
"What am I going to do with you? I'm going to see that you
never, ever escape from me again!" she hissed venomously.
Before she led her hapless assistant down to the kitchen she
dusted his face with scented powder.
++++++++++++++++
Boss was astonished at breakfast to find the boy still
dressed in his wife's clothes. The meal, like the previous
evening's dinner, was eaten in tense silence.
All eyes in the room were on Blondie. Boss and the two boys,
Homer and Dutchie, embarrassed and confused by the boy's
feminine attire, threw clandestine glances in his direction;
Queenie, hovering in the background, watched his every
movement like a cat with a captive mouse.
'I can tell from your face that you don't like any of this.
Why did you let her make you wear her clothes yesterday?'
Boss said to himself as the shame-faced boy served coffee.
'What happened between the two of you yesterday? Is she
punishing you for something? Why are you so silent today? Why
don't you say something?'
Boss observed how subservient the boy had become: Queenie
scarcely had to raise her voice and Blondie would scurry to
carry out her orders.
The dinner that evening was eaten in an equally strained
atmosphere. Gone was the boy's usual good-natured banter with
Homer and Dutchie, instead his downcast eyes sought to avoid
meeting theirs. 'I can't figure out what she's doing with you
but it's certainly cured your smart-ass behavior,' Boss said
to himself with no small sense of satisfaction.
The following day passed and went, as did the next and the
next. Boss was no nearer understanding the reason for
Blondie's womanish attire then he was at the start. The
silence which had characterized meal-times was slowly
punctured; first, by he and the two bigger boys speaking in
whispers and then gradually talking in their normal voices.
Queenie excluded Blondie from their conversations by
confining him to the kitchen; he only came out when she told
him to. Boss was astonished how -- without a murmur of
protest -- the boy would let her fuss over his lace bonnet or
re-tie his apron. The control that she seemed to exert over
Blondie through dressing him in female clothing unsettled
Boss and, if the truth be told, it unsettled him greatly.
He thought it was unnatural and unnecessary of Queenie to
make the boy dress in her clothes. But whenever he raised the
matter with his wife she always had a ready answer for him.
"Aren't you glad he's stopped making fun of you," she would
retort. If he continued to press her on the matter she would
clinch the argument by pointing out that Blondie wasn't
complaining ...
He fretted too that Queenie was spending too much time with
the boy in the evening -- she no longer sat with him after
dinner ("I'm too busy right now ... perhaps tomorrow," she
would say). As he sat alone in his favorite chair he could
hear the two of them in the spare bedroom upstairs.
Occasionally, he would hear his wife's raised voice and the
sudden scuffling of heels on the floor.
Boss came to regret putting Queenie in charge of Blondie: it
had been a mistake on his part. He knew too that Dutchie and
Homer secretly blamed him for what was happening to their
friend. In his mind he saw the boy running away to escape the
humiliation he suffered at Queenie's hands. He decided he
would use this excuse to wrestle control of the boy from his
wife, and he sought her out one evening after dinner.
He found the two of them in the spare bedroom. Blondie was
sitting in front of a mirror with a large sheet wrapped
around him; his wife was trimming the boy's long blond hair.
"What are you doing, woman?" he growled.
"Can't you see? I'm cutting his hair," she replied testily.
She seemed to resent his presence in the room. "What do you
want?"
"I think he's going to escape -- I've seen that look in his
eyes; he's going to try to escape, mark my words!" he
exclaimed, wide-eyed.
"Not while I'm in charge of him!" Queenie snapped back.
"No! He's going to try and escape! I know it!" her husband
persisted.
"He's not going to escape, I tell you!" Queenie rasped.
"How can you be so sure?" Boss demanded.
Queenie gave her husband an exasperated glare and whipped the
sheet off the boy.
"There!" she said triumphantly. "Do you think he'll escape
now?"
Her husband looked sheepish seeing that the boy's hands had
been tied to the back of the chair.
"You can't keep him hog-tied like that all day!" her husband
challenged furiously.
"I don't need to!" Queenie retorted. "I can control him well
enough in other ways."
"How?" her husband demanded. "What's to stop him running away
when he's out of your sight?"
Queenie went around to the front of the boy. Lifting up the
hem of his dress and all but the inner-most petticoats she
pointed to the remaining lace-trimmed underskirt.
"See that?" she said, blazing with anger.
"Yeah, what about it?" Boss replied impatiently. "You're
going to tell me that a frilly underskirt is going to stop
him running away?"
Queenie smirked.
"That's exactly what I'm going to tell you," she retorted.
"That's a hobble skirt he's wearing -- do you know what that
means?"
Boss shook his head.
"It means that it restricts his leg movement so he can't move
more than six inches at a time!" she told him.
Her husband sneered.
"Oh yeah! What's to stop him taking it off?" he demanded.
"His dress."
"His dress?" her husband repeated incredulously.
"Yes, his dress; he can't take his petticoats off without
taking off his dress and I fixed it that he can't take off
his dress without me!" Queenie replied as if she was
explaining something very simple to a not-very-bright small
child.
Boss glared at her.
"You think women aren't as clever as men, but we know how to
impose discipline in our own way," Queenie snapped. Then,
going on the offensive, she added: "Where are your two? Do I
see that the door of their quarters is open?"
Her husband went over to the window in disbelief and then
with a roar rushed out of the room and down the stairs.
Queenie bolted the door closed behind him and draped the boy
with the sheet again.
Taking up her scissors again she looked at his reflection in
the mirror.
"Men!" she snorted derisively. "Take my advice: don't have
anything to do with them!"
++++++++++++++++
Homer and Dutchie missed their friend; they only saw him at
breakfast and dinner during the week and at lunch on Sundays.
He was not allowed to talk to them on Queenie's express
orders. She got Boss to punish them if she caught either of
them talking to him.
They felt sorry for Blondie seeing the way Queenie treated
him. They both agreed that despite Boss's physical
maltreatment of them they preferred working with him than
her.
"She never lets him out of her sight," Homer said one evening
after Boss had locked them in for the evening.
"Yeah, she's a right devil!" agreed Dutchie who was the
smarter of the two.
"She gives me the creeps! Those eyes -- like they can read
your mind!" Homer exclaimed. "I don't know how Blondie sticks
it."
"I don't think he has a choice. I heard Boss roaring to her
the other night not to keep him tied up all day --" Dutchie
said.
"You're joking! She keeps him tied up all day?" Homer
breathed in horror.
"That's what Boss was shouting, anyway," Dutchie responded.
"But he can hardly move as it is, with all those skirts!"
Homer commented. "I was watchin' him on Sunday and he could
only shuffle along!"
"I know, I know," Dutchie agreed wearily. "She knows that he
can't get very far in those clothes -- I bet that's why she
makes him wear them!"
"I wish there was something we could do for him," Homer
exclaimed. "Boss won't do anything for Blondie -- he's washed
his hands on him!"
Dutchie nodded.
"I'd give my bottom dollar to help him escape," he said.
"But he can't escape, Dutchie!" Homer pointed out. "She has
eyes like a hawk -- she misses nothing!"
He clambered up to the loft above them. He gave Dutchie a low
whistle and waved him to come up.
Through the only window in their quarters they watched as a
light came on in the spare bedroom over in the farm building.
They saw Queenie drag the femininely-dressed boy into the
room.
"Look, Dutchie!" Homer exclaimed in horror. "His hands _are_
tied behind his back!"
"Poor fellah!" breathed Dutchie.
Then Queenie closed the curtains but the boys continued to
watch. They could faintly hear their friend crying and
pleading; then there was silence.
The light went out fifteen minutes later.
++++++++++++++++
It was just after noon and though it was still only early
spring it was very hot.
They were sitting on a bench beneath a sycamore tree whose
leafy branches shaded them from the burning rays of the sun.
Queenie felt relaxed and comfortable despite the heat. Her
fingers deftly worked the needle in and out of her embroidery
frame. She glanced briefly at her companion and decided to
let him suffer for another while.
"My, it's hot out here!" she said a few minutes later. She
gave him a smile (she smiled a lot these days) and squeezed
his arm.
"Blondie, you've a lot to learn," she said. "But I'm
disappointed that you're not very willing pupil today. But
time is on my side, Blondie, and I can wait -- all day if I
have to. I told you yesterday I was going to teach you
embroidery and teach you embroidery I will!"
She shifted closer to him on the bench.
"Would you like an extra layer, Blondie?" she whispered.
There was no response from the boy.
"That's what I'll do, Blondie -- I'll add another layer!
You've been disobedient for not wanting to do your embroidery
lessons!" Queenie said playfully. She waited to see his
reaction: he was already wearing four extra layers of
petticoats! Each demeanour was punished by another layer
being added to the standard five he wore; Blondie knew the
rules: obey her -- or face the consequences!
Tears trickled down the boy's face.
"Oh, Blondie! Don't cry!" Queenie consoled him in an
insincere voice. "Maybe embroidery lessons wouldn't be so bad
after all? Would you like to try?"
The boy nodded.
Queenie reached over and untied the cord binding his wrists
together. The boy tenderly rubbed his wrists; the red weals
made by the cord were clearly visible on his skin.
"I'll leave the sash the way it is, Blondie," she told him.
The boy nodded tearfully: Queenie had undone the sash of his
dress when he had sat down on the bench. Then she had slipped
the two ends of the sash between the wooden bars of the bench
before retying them. In this way he was secured to the bench.
The boy knew from bitter experience how Queenie loved to
tether him in this way; he knew too it was impossible to
reach around to free himself, leaving him at her mercy.
Acting on impulse and even though she knew it was an over-
kill, she had even tied his ankles together. She remembered
looking up and seeing the hot tears of humiliation welling in
his eyes as she had reached under his skirts. Best of all,
she remembered expecting resistance but it never came: he had
meekly submitted his slim ankles being bound together with a
length of silk ribbon.
"The gag can stay on too," she added with an imperious smile.
++++++++++++++++
When Queenie had dressed Blondie in one of her night-gowns
one evening and tied his wrists to the bed, she laid out his
clothes for the following day.
"You're going to look very pretty in this dress, girlie," she
smiled, showing him the dark green garment. She hung it in
his closet and verbally checked off his uniform: "Chemise,
stockings, corset, petticoats, apron, lace bonnet! All your
pretties ready for you tomorrow!"
She did a final check on the cords securing his wrists to the
bed-post. Satisfied, she splashed his neck and wrists with
eau-de-cologne.
"Sweet dreams, girlie!" she whispered softly before blowing
out the lamp. She locked the door behind her.
Downstairs she took out the letter she had started writing to
her cousin, a herbalist living near a city on the east coast.
She read what she had written so far:
"Dearest Anita:
I hope this letter finds you in good health.
All is well here and if the weather continues to hold it
looks that we will have a good year on the ranch.
I am most grateful for your letter and package which finally
arrived last month. I have been administering the contents of
the green bottle to Blondie. Of course, he does not know that
I am giving it to him. But you were right! He complains of
extra tiredness and of weary limbs. He is like a lamb now --
so docile! It is a great mental relief to me to know that I
can give him this to sap his boyish energy!
Anita, it is so amusing! When he complains of tiredness, I
tell him he is a weakling -- that he is just like a girl!
Then, he gets offended and tries to stand up! But he soon
runs out of strength and has to sit down again! I don't say
anything but I let him know by my expression that I have been
proven right! Of course, I have been adding extra petticoats
underneath his dress and the weight of these adds to his
difficulties! Just lifting his skirts takes its toll!
If only, Anita, I had the excuse to dress him in female
clothes from the start! I remember when he first worked under
my supervision, I was so apprehensive about him escaping. Now
that his movements are dictated by the constraints of
voluminous underskirts, hoops, and long skirts with which you
and I are so familiar, I feel so relaxed knowing that he
can't abscond.
My 'girlie' (how he hates the term!) has always coped well
with his domestic chores but now he has to re-learn how to do
them wearing a dress! He's found that simple things like
picking something up from the floor have to be done
differently: for a start, whale-boned corsets don't allow any
flexibility at the waist and, secondly, young ladies are
'trained' not to show their petticoats!
I have begun instructing girlie in the finer points of
femininity: I have started him on embroidery and though he
doesn't know it yet I will soon teach him to braid his hair.
Of course, Boss is jealous of the attention I give to
Blondie. But, Anita, I don't care! I dedicated my life to
Boss up to now and never got any thanks or recognition in
return. Now, I've got Blondie and, believe me, I don't intend
to let him go! Boss has his two boys, Homer and Dutchie, so
in a way he's happy too. Anyway, I've got a plan to get Boss
to quit cribbing about how I treat Blondie. If it works --
and I am sure it will -- I can get on with molding Blondie in
the way I told you about in my last letter.
It is richly ironic but I am as strict on girlie as my mother
was on me! How I resented her authoritarian ways and how I
detested her attempt to turn me into -- what I thought then
-- was the personification of a porcelain doll: delicate,
beautiful to look at but voiceless! But now I look back and
realize the value of what she was trying to do; she knew
then, as I do now, that until women receive emancipation we
will never be treated as equals by men. While we wait for our
rights our only hope is to sit daintly and attract a husband
who hopefully will come to recognize our qualities. I ran
away with Boss before my mother could teach me about men -- a
mistake I do not intend to make with girlie."
Then Queenie finished the letter with a few more sentences
describing how female clothing was shaping Blondie's
behavior. She related with relish how Blondie had learnt to
lift his skirts off the ground when he went anywhere and how
he smoothed the back of his dress when sitting down. She
recounted how one day at dinner Boss and the boys had noticed
a bruise on Blondie's forehead; even they had laughed when
she explained that he had tripped on his skirts and fallen
against a chair!
She sealed the letter in an envelope; she would tell Boss to
post it the next time he was in Stuger City.
++++++++++++++++
Boss was surrounded by his drinking cronies in the Thunder
Mountain Salon when the owner, a widow by the name of Hettie
Baldwin, approached holding a bottle of whisky.
She was a small, compact woman in her early forties and
though more comfortable in female company had an easy way
with her mostly male customers.
Though Boss was an infrequent visitor to her salon in Stuger
City, Hettie had recently learnt a great detail of
information about him. Information which lowered her already
low opinion of him.
Boss, she learnt, had been married for over fifteen years and
as his wife was infertile had no children of his own. When
his wife had suggested adopting a girl and a boy from an
orphanage, he had refused to entertain the idea. A few days
later, he suddenly reversed his stance. But his wife's joy
was short-lived; instead he bullied her into accepting his
proposal of firstly taking boys only and, secondly, taking
older boys who could help him on the ranch. His wife had
cried on the journey to the orphanage and back but he had
remained unmoved by her tears. The matron of the orphanage
had tried to facilitate her original wishes but could not do
so without her husband's consent.
Hettie learnt that the orphanage had provided Boss with three
boys, one of whom was physically unsuitable for manual work
and whom his wife had molded into a domestic help (Boss's
wife had been pleasantly surprized at how well the boy had
settled into his new role). Not long after though, the boy
had tried to escape but she had caught him just in time. Had
he succeeded she would have faced a certain beating from her
husband. To prevent the boy from escaping again she had
dressed him in female clothing. She knew it was unorthodox
and very humiliating for him but she justified it on its
effectiveness in preventing him from running away again. She
had a hunch, a feeling -- it was no more than that -- he
would somehow come to the realization that on the prairie he
was better off posing as a girl rather than as a physically
inadequate boy who did woman's work.
The only fly in the ointment was that Boss continually railed
against her emasculation of the boy and was threatening to
take him from her control.
As Hettie approached the table where Boss and his friends
were sitting, she could hear them talking about recent
hangings in the town.
"Evening, boys," she greeted them.
"Hello, Hettie," they chorused.
"Couldn't but overhear you talking about hangings," she said,
pouring them a refill of whisky ["The drink's on me," she
told them]. Looking directly at Boss she said: "Ever hear of
what happened to Wally Segard?"
"Wally Segard? No, who's he? What about him?" Boss replied.
"You never heard about poor old Wally!" Hettie exclaimed in
surprise.
Boss shook his head.
"He was murdered six months ago," Hettie continued.
"Murdered? By who?" Boss quizzed.
"His wife --" Hettie replied.
"His wife!" Boss interjected.
"Yes, it seems she wanted children but couldn't have any of
her own. Seems too she wanted to adopt a girl from an
orphanage but Wally wouldn't let her," Hettie said.
"He wouldn't let her?" Boss repeated, suddenly going red.
"That's right. So, she got a knife and cut off his manhood
while he was in a drunken sleep," Hettie said calmly.
"Oh man!" Boss moaned and involuntarily crossed his legs.
"Yes, it was terrible!" Hettie said. "So they arrested her --
Wally died a few days later -- and questioned her why she'd
did it. She said she'd wanted a daughter so bad that she'd
kill anyone who got in her way. And it seems Wally got in her
way ..."
"She did that because ... that's unbelievable ..." Boss
stuttered.
"No, it happened, Boss," Hettie confirmed. "Every married
woman longs for a daughter ... it's a woman thing ... we've
this intense craving for another female with whom we can
share our inner-most thoughts and secrets. Seems Wally
couldn't understand that desire in his wife -- not that most
husbands do --"
"That's hogwash!" Boss interrupted. "Women are just plain
irrational!"
"Maybe so, Boss," Hettie said softly, "but, Boss, just
remember this: when someone tries to get in the way of that
mother-daughter relationship, the female is the most
_dangerous_ of the species!"
She walked away before Boss could reply.
++++++++++++++++
Queenie knew her next task was to put as much distance
between Blondie and the other two boys as she could. Keeping
him tied up and locked in the spare bedroom at night while
they slept in the out-house heightened his sense of isolation
from things masculine.
She forbade him to talk to the boys at meal times threatening
dire consequences if he did.
One morning Boss did not come down for breakfast and it was
Queenie who let Homer and Dutchie out of their sleeping
quarters.
Blondie served them their breakfast while Queenie busied
herself in the kitchen.
Dutchie touched Blondie on the arm and pointed questioningly
to Boss's empty place. Blondie, nervously looked back to the
kitchen and seeing that Queenie had her back to them,
signalled to them that Boss had been drinking.
'Last night or this morning?' Dutchie tried to signal back.
Blondie stared at him blankly.
Dutchie repeated the signal.
But still Blondie did not understand what he was saying.
Exasperated, Dutchie whispered:
"Was he drinking last night or this morning?"
Blondie looked around again and saw that Queenie still had
her back to them.
"Last night," he whispered. "He nearly drank a whole bot --"
"YOU WENCH! I CAUGHT YOU, YOU WENCH," Queenie shouted. "I
CAUGHT YOU TALKING!"
She strode into the room, grabbed Blondie by the arm and
dragged him, skirts flying, back into the kitchen. She
slammed the door shut behind her and slapped repeatedly him
across the face.
"I told you <slap> you're not <slap> allowed to talk <slap>
except when I tell you," she hollered.
The boy tried to ward off the blows but this incensed Queenie
even further.
"I know how to sort you out!" she snarled through clenched
teeth. She took a length of cotton and gagged the boy as
tightly as she could.
She pushed the muzzled boy back into where the two boys were
sitting and told him to finish serving the meal.
"What's ... what's ... going on here?" Boss said groggily he
as came into the room.
"Blondie here was disobedient and I had to punish the wench,"
Queenie said calmly.
The muzzled boy looked at Boss with beseeching eyes.
Boss made his way unsteadily to his place, clutching on to
the table to balance himself and sat down. He rubbed his
blood-shot eyes with the back of his hand; he avoided looking
at Blondie.
"What's going on here?" he repeated in a hollow voice.
Queenie leant against the kitchen door with her arms folded;
a scornful look appeared on her face.
"I forbade Blondie to talk to the boys at the table and the
wench disobeyed me. Now Blondie's paying the penalty," she
said smoothly.
"But --" Boss started to reply.
"I'm in charge of Blondie, remember, and I'll decide what the
wench can or cannot do!" she snapped.
"But --" Boss tried again.
"But nothing! I won't have you undermining my authority with
the wench. Hear me, Boss? Just don't _get_ in my _way_ again
-- or else!" Queenie snarled through clenched teeth, picking
up a carving knife and ramming it into the wooden carving
block.
Boss, suddenly remembering the story of Wally Segard,
blanched and his hands moved to cover his crotch.
"But he needsstht to talhk!" he stuttered incoherently.
Homer and Dutchie looked on with bewilderment: was Boss going
to let her talk back to him in front of them like this?
Surely he was not going to allow her to punish Blondie like
this? 'Come on, man,' they silently urged, 'get up and show
her whose boss around here!'
The boy too continued to silently implore Boss with his eyes.
It was Queenie who broke the eerie silence.
"Blondie, come here to me! NOW!" she ordered.
The boy gave a last, despairing glance at Boss who averted
his eyes. He lifted his skirts and slowly walked over to
where Queenie was standing.
"Turn around: your gag is loose," she commanded in an
imperious voice.
The boy slowly turned around to face the men at the table
while Queenie made a great show of taking off his gag and
retying it with as much force as she could muster.
She spun him around to face her.
"There, that'll still you. You listen to me, Blondie: you
answer to me and to me alone. Is that clear?"
The boy nodded his head.
In a louder voice Queenie continued:
"Let everybody be a witness to this: in this house you have
the status of a maid and since I'm the mistress of this
household I -- and I alone -- will punish you as I see fit,"
she pronounced. "Now, get Boss his breakfast."
From that day on Homer and Dutchie knew that Blondie's fate
was sealed; it was clear that Boss would never even try to
intervene on Blondie's behalf again in the future. It was
their first sign that Boss's absolute authority was on the
wane.
++++++++++++++++
Queenie made her hapless assistant change clothes twice a
day. He started the day wearing stiffened petticoats and a
dress. Then when Boss and the boys had gone out to the herd
she put him into hoops. She liked the idea of the widest
possible crinoline on Blondie -- the wider the spread of his
dress the more difficult it was for him to maneouvre (and to
escape).
When he thought he was out of her eye sight he would try to
undo the buttons of his dress to take the hoops off. She
would smile to herself when realizing the futility of what he
was doing Blondie would give up in despair.
Queenie deliberately created a claustrophobic atmosphere of
enforced feminine helplessness into which she sucked Blondie
and from which there was no escape:
clothing;
household; and,
feminized state.
An important key to emphasizing his newly imposed femininity
she discovered was his hair. Queenie kept his blonde hair
long and only trimmed it to keep the locks even. At night she
would braid his hair before pinning on a lace sleeping cap.
In the morning she would fix his hair into plaits or some
other equally feminine arrangement. During the day he was not
allowed to wear his hair bare -- it had to be covered by a
cap, snood, veil, or bonnet. At random intervals -- during
the day or night -- she would strap him to a chair and would
spend ten, fifteen or twenty minutes combing and brushing his
hair.
Queenie let a fringe grow at the front and was pleased when
every five minutes Blondie would have to sweep the hair out
of his eyes and tuck it behind his ear. Though he was not yet
conscious of it Queenie quite liked this feminine mannerism
she had developed in Blondie.
++++++++++++++++
From time to time Blondie had what Queenie would describe as
'teenage tantrums'. She learnt to recognize the warning
symptoms and the treatment she devised was remarkably
successful in smothering any rebelliousness.
The tantrums were usually sparked off by Blondie venting his
anger and frustration at new rules she imposed on him.
Sometimes the sense of being hopelessly enmeshed in the
feminine net she was gradually tightening around him caused
the boy to erupt. His gradual loss of physical strength was
another source of intense frustration as were her
restrictions on his diet. Occasionally, she would
deliberately goad him into a tantrum: the easiest way to do
that, she found, was to remind him how he had been rejected
by men for men's work (by implication he was only suitable,
therefore, for women's work).
Two days previously when she had caught him eating cooked
meat which he was supposed to have been slicing, the most
recent tantrum had developed.
"Leave me alone!" he screamed as she dragged him upstairs. "I
hate you!"
He was sobbing by the time she pushed him into his bedroom.
"I was hungry!" he wept. "I haven't eaten meat for months!"
"You should have known better, you little hussy! You'll eat
when I tell you can!" Queenie snapped, tying his wrists
together. "How do you expect to keep your figure if you keep
eating between meals?"
"Let me gooooooooooooo!" the boy screamed. "I don't
waaaaaaaaant to be a girrlllllll! Pleeeeaaaaaseeeee let me
go!"
He tried to kick her but the impact was muted by the heavy
layers of petticoats and skirts he wore.
"I hate you, I haaaaaaattttte you!" he shrieked.
Ignoring him, Queenie went over to the closet and cleared a
space between the racks of dresses.
"Come over here!" she snapped.
"Nooooooooo, I won't," Blondie wept defiantly. "You can't
maaaaaake me!"
Queenie's action was swift and decisive.
"Oh, I can't, can I not?" she asked airily a minute later.
"You look a pretty sight, girlie, surrounded by these lovely
dresses!" Then she scoffed: "Let me know which one you want
to wear when you cool down ..."
She went downstairs to continue her work. When she had
dressed him first, there had been twenty tantrums that month
-- she remembered each and every one of them. She looked at
her diary: today had been the only tantrum so far this month;
there had been three in the previous month, five the month
before that: the futility of resisting was beginning to sink
in ...
Three hours later she went back up to his bedroom. Spreading
out her skirts she sat on his bed and took out her embroidery
frame.
The boy was exhausted from trying to keep his balance; he
kept looking despairingly up at the clothes railing above his
head to which Queenie had attached his wrists. She had fixed
it that he could just about stand on his tip-toes in the
closet. Tear stains ran like dried-up rivers through his
make-up.
"Let me go!" the boy sobbed.
"Are you sorry?"
There was a silence. She could see the boy hesitating. If he
refused he would spend another three hours in the closet (and
miss dinner).
"Yes, ... I'm sorry, ... Queenie," he replied in a low voice.
"I won't eat again ... without your permission."
"I think you have suffered enough, girlie," she said. "But
before I release you, have you made up your mind?"
The boy looked at her and then up at his bound wrists.
Queenie gloated inwardly: 'This is hard on you, Blondie, real
hard,' she said gleefully to herself, 'you get punished for
reacting against all this femininity and then to set yourself
free you have to decide what you're going to wear for the
rest of the day!'
"The ... red and black check dress," he said quietly.
Queenie said nothing but eyed him beadily.
"Forgive me, Queenie, I meant to say: I want to wear the red
and black check dress."
"I'm pleased with your choice, girlie," she commented
approvingly. Then, she added in a silky voice: "Tell me,
girlie, why do you want to wear such a pretty dress?"
Queenie waited for the boy to answer; he knew by now there
was only one answer she would permit.
"Because ... because ..." the boy started and then stopped.
She raised her eyebrows expectantly.
"Because I want to wear ... ," the boy continued in a
faltering voice. He looked up at her and hurriedly gulped: "I
want ... I'd like ... a dress that'll make men sit up and
take notice of me."
Queenie nodded sagely.
"That's the reason why we all want to wear a pretty dress,
girlie -- and the woman who says otherwise is telling a lie.
We live in an age where, sadly, men don't appreciate our
intellectual abilities -- you've seen how Boss and the boys
just ignore you now. The only way we can impress men is to
emphasize our natural attractions," she said, reaching up to
untie his wrists.
"Come on, girlie, let me help you into this dress. I'll
freshen your make-up too -- you don't want them to see that
you've been crying!" she offered in a friendly voice. Then
she added with a smile: "I've a treat for you, girlie: I
bought some lovely new silk ribbons that'll look real pretty
in your hair!"
++++++++++++++++
Queenie read over the letter she had just written to her
cousin Anita. She was breathless with excitement and she
could hear her heart pounding.
"Dear Anita:
Do you remember the first time I wrote to you about girlie?
How clumsy he was in a dress? How he tripped over his skirts?
Well, I am so excited at what I observed earlier this evening
that I can scarcely write!
It happened like this. As a bonus for cleaning the kitchen I
gave girlie one of my books to read after dinner. He hadn't
read anything since he came here so he was soon engrossed in
the book!
So much so that he forgot where he was and what he was
wearing!
I normally have to remind him to smooth his dress at back
when he sits down but this time I didn't need to! It's almost
an instinctive reaction on my part to call out and remind him
but I realized just in time that he already done it!
Automatically! Spontaneously! Intuitively!
Exhilarated at my discovery, I continued to watch him out of
the corner of my eyes. While he was lost in his book, I saw
his hand playing with the folds of his dress! Anita, it
simply took my breath away!
Then he noticed me looking at him and he stopped reading. He
got up to go up to his bedroom making sure he tripped over
his skirts on the way!
It was just one small episode but for me it was like a fog
lifting: suddenly you get a glimpse of the landscape of the
inner soul.
When he was asleep I re-read the letter from Mrs. Mellon: it
set me thinking again about girlie�s circumstances before he
came to the orphanage.
Anita, could I ask you a favor? Could you make a visit to the
orphanage for me? I would be most grateful if you can find
anything about his family background.
As always, many thanks for the latest parcel of medicines.
Blondie's skin has got even softer and more supple than I
could ever have believed possible.
Love as always,"
Queenie signed and sealed the letter. She put her hand to her
bosom: her heart was still racing at the significance of what
she had just witnessed.
++++++++++++++++
There was no let up in the stifling, suffocating feminine
'prison' regime for Blondie. Each Sunday afternoon when Boss
was asleep inside the house and the boys were messing down by
the river, upstairs in her bedroom Queenie was dressing
Blondie for their Sunday stroll.
She fastened her widest crinoline around the boy's waist and
followed it with a succession of petticoats. Then after a few
minutes deliberation she fitted him in a double flounced gown
with chantilly lace frills and edging.
"Mauve is such a lovely color on you, Blondie," she told him,
tying the satin ribbon sash at back. Then, she turned him to
face the mirror and added with a leer: "You look so pretty --
and I haven't finished with you yet!"
She grinned as the boy's face burned red with embarrassment
and humiliation.
She lightly brushed the ringlets she had set in his hair that
morning and dabbed eau-de-cologne on his neck.
Then she took a silk scarf from a drawer and laying it out
flat on the bed in front of him she folded it to make a wide
band.
"Please, Queenie: you know I won't --" he started to say as
she approached him.
Before the boy could finish his plea, Queenie muzzled him
securing the gag with a tight knot at the back of his head.
Then she took a wide brimmed bonnet from the bed and
carefully placed it on his head. Releasing a pin she allowed
a heavy, cream-colored lace veil draped on the brim of the
hat to fall down and to touch his shoulders. The veil was one
of her favorite touches: it allowed the boy to see where he
was going but nobody looking at him could see through it that
he was gagged.
When she was satisfied that he was ready she too changed into
a Sunday dress. She had decided -- right from the very
beginning -- to dress and undress in his presence. Though
initially she found it unnerving to have a male watch her she
persevered. She reasoned that it would further undermine his
sense of male identity because he'd realize that apart from
her husband or infant son no woman would ever willingly
permit a male see her dress and undress in the privacy of her
own bedroom. Her policy of letting him see her in her
underwear would sent him the very clear but subtle message
that she did not consider him a male.
When she was finished dressing Queenie untied the cords
securing Blondie's wrists to the bed-post. She forced his
hands into a pair of white gloves and with a length of white
ribbon tied his wrists together in front. She unlocked the
bedroom door and propelled the feminized boy down to the
kitchen.
"Hold this in your left hand, girlie," she ordered, giving
him a lace parasol.
Knowing what was coming, the boy cautiously reached out for
the parasol. Taking another length of white ribbon Queenie
strapped the parasol to his hand so he could not let go of it
even if he wanted to.
"Hold your skirts up with your free hand," Queenie said,
stressing the word 'free' with sarcastic irony. The boy
gathered his voluminous skirts with difficulty with his right
hand while still keeping his parasol upright in his other
hand. Queen watched with detached amusement.
"I think you'll be too preoccupied to run away from me this
afternoon, girlie!" she joked. "Better still, if Homer and
Dutchie see you, they'll think how daintily you're holding
your pretty parasol!"
Linking arms with her hapless companion she led Blondie along
her favorite walk, to the small hill overlooking the ranch
and the river. Years ago she had gotten Boss to make her a
wooden seat under the shade of a tree. Boss had labeled it
'Lady's View' and the name had stuck.
"Here we are!" she announced.
The boy looked at her hesitantly.
"Relax, Blondie! You can sit down on the bench today!"
Queenie laughed (she liked to keep him guessing what she
intended to do with him: sometimes she would keep him
standing in the blazing sun until he would scream through his
gag from pain and exhaustion, at other times she would sit
him on a rug but bind his ankles and wrists together).
She settled the boy on the bench, spreading his skirts about
him. She released the parasol, untied his wrists and removed
his gloves. Next, she carefully lifted the veil up off his
face and pinned it back up on the brim of the bonnet. Then,
much to his relief, she took off his gag. Finally, she gave
him his embroidery frame, needle and threads.
"What color are you going to make the dress?" she asked
chattily.
The boy glanced at her and then looked at the outline of a
woman printed on the fabric stretched taut over the frame in
his hands. He looked back up at her with a defiant look in
his eyes.
Queenie picked up a cord and waved it warningly in his face.
"Purple!" the boy replied hastily.
Queenie laughed.
"Off you go, girlie!" she said, sitting down beside him.
For the next hour she watched as he embroidered, his slim
fingers working the needle and colored threads through the
fabric as she had taught him. She stopped him occasionally to
correct a mistake or to teach him a new technique. He had
come to like embroidery -- Queenie had rightly figured that
he'd find it preferable to spending the afternoon bound and
gagged.
"Are you hungry, girlie? Would you like an apple?" she
inquired later.
The boy looked at her in surprise and nodded his head. Before
he could put down his embroidery frame, Queenie abruptly
dropped the apple in his lap which he trapped in his skirts
and hungrily ate.
A few minutes later, Queenie was about to pick up her own
frame when she heard shouts. Then she saw Homer and Dutchie
brawling playfully in the river below. Even from where she
was sitting it was plain that they were naked. Blondie looked
up from his embroidery.
Queenie rummaged through her basket and pulled out a cotton
scarf.
"You're not going to gag me, are you? Why?" the boy gasped in
dismay, the blood draining from his face.
"No, girlie, I'm not going to gag you," Queenie replied,
getting up and standing in front of him. "I'm going to
blindfold you."
"Why? Why are you blindfolding me? What have I done? Please,
tell me why?" the boy pleaded.
"Because impressionable young girls should not be exposed to
the sight of male nudity until they're married!" she replied
sternly, tying the blindfold tightly at the back of his head.
Once more she released the heavy lace veil, allowing it to
fall down over the brim of the bonnet and obscure his face.
She sat down and waited for his response. 'I know what you'd
like to say,' she said to herself, 'you'd like to say: "But
I'm not a girl -- I'm a boy just like they are!" But you know
that's not the answer I want to hear!'
There was a silence before the boy replied.
"I won't be able to embroider now," he said in a small,
subdued voice.
Queenie smiled broadly.
"That's men for you, girlie! They always spoil things on us,"
she said.
Blondie said nothing.
"You can finish this later, girlie," she said, taking the
embroidery frame from him, "because, right now, I want your
undivided attention. It's high time we talk again, woman-to-
woman, on what it means to be female."
She moved closer to the boy until their skirts pressed
against each other and she could feel the outline of his
crinoline. She knew Blondie hated these "womanly chats" which
always lauded his feminine characteristics and denigrated his
masculine traits.
"What would you say, girlie, is the main difference between
men and us?" she asked.
Her blind-folded and cross-dressed companion shrugged his
shoulders in reply.
"Our femininity. We're endowed with the qualities of
gentleness, softness, sensitivity and kindness. The qualities
that tell us apart from men," she replied. "And the qualities
other women recognize in us."
Then pulling a letter from her pocket, she said: "Let me read
what someone who knows you well has said about you: 'when I
first met him he was the most gentle child I have ever
encountered ... so small and perfectly formed ... and with
such soft skin [the envy of every woman who came in contact
with him] ... he preferred female company ... hated the rough
behavior of boys'. You know who wrote this letter, girlie?"
The boy shook his head.
"Mrs. Mellon," Queenie replied.
The boy gasped in astonishment.
"Yes, girlie, you're surprized! I never told you this before
but Mrs. Mellon picked you! Mrs. Mellon, the matron of your
orphanage! She originally offered us two boys but, after a
private conversation with me, she later decided to add you as
a bonus! That was why Boss and I were so surprized when the
driver from the orphanage brought the three of you -- we had
only expected two!" Queenie said.
Blondie continued to gape sightlessly at her.
Queenie continued: "Let me explain, girlie: I had wanted to
adopt a boy and a girl from the orphanage but Boss wouldn't
let me -- he wanted boys only. I was in tears when we visited
the orphanage and Mrs. Mellon took me aside to find out why.
When I explained this to her she said she couldn't let me
adopt a girl without Boss's permission. She said she
sympathized with me and assured me she would do her very best
to help me achieve my goal! She had a knowing smile on her
face when she said it!"
She took Blondie's hands in her own.
"And do you know why, girlie?" she asked softly.
The boy shook his head for a second time.
"Because she immediately thought of you, girlie. She wrote in
her letter that because of your feminine characteristics ...
of gentleness, softness, sensitivity ... you could be the
nearest substitute to the girl I had been hoping for!"
Queenie replied. "She added that all you lacked was a dress
but this has not always been the case in the past! I always
thought this was a strange remark but I never made anything
of it. But lately, girlie, I've observed some things in you
that has made me think of her remark. Of course, most of the
time you pretend to hate your present predicament but deep
down I'm not so sure ..."
"You're wrong! I do hate it!" the boy interrupted.
"Then explain this: a few minutes ago, I dropped an apple in
your lap while you were holding your embroidery frame in your
hands. Remember how you caught it? By spreading your knees
wide and catching it with your skirt: that's the way a girl
catches something dropped in her lap. A boy does the
opposite: he catches by bringing his legs together," Queenie
said.
"So?" the boy muttered scornfully.
"So where did you learn to catch that way?" Queenie asked.
"You were tutored at a very early age, I imagine ..."
"Hogwash!" Blondie replied, reddening. "What does it prove?"
he added in a husky voice.
"Prior tutoring, girlie, prior tutoring!" Queenie asserted.
"And, I suspect, tutoring which began at a very early age
..."
The boy looked sightlessly down at the ground and didn't
reply.
"There are other little clues, girlie," Queenie continued
softly. "You thread your embroidery needle the way a woman
does! A few days ago as an experiment, I asked Dutchie and
Homer to thread a needle. They both did it the opposite way
you and I do it ...!"
Blondie said nothing and continued to look at the ground.
"Is there anything you'd like to tell me, girlie?" Queenie
prompted gently. "How is it that you do all of these things
the way a girl does ... ?"
The boy did not reply.
"Don't want to talk, girlie?" Queenie responded briskly.
"Don't you worry, girlie, I'll make a few enquiries ..."
++++++++++++++++
Most of the time Homer and Dutchie ignored Blondie; it simply
didn't make any sense to risk a beating by conversing with
their former friend. They acted as if Blondie didn't exist.
Queenie found it amusing to watch Blondie as he sought to
covertly attract their attention at meal-times. He would
dawdle at their table when he thought she wasn't looking or
give them unsolicited extra helpings. But his efforts were
wasted on Homer and Dutchie: they had decided he wasn't worth
the trouble of antagonizing Boss and they carried on as if he
didn't exist.
Their aloof attitude gave Queenie the opportunity to impress
on Blondie the reality of his new situation. She told him he
as a "woman" he would have to live with the fact that men
would treat him as a second-class citizen. However, if
Blondie was willing she would show him how to gain and keep
their attention. She could see he was interested in finding
out how but his pride wouldn't allow it.
One morning she rose earlier than usual and instead of fixing
his hair into two pony-tails she set about arranging his long
blond tresses into a french braid. She interleaved a silk
ribbon between the braids of hair, creating a stunning
effect. From the corner of her eye she watched the boy's
reaction. She could see that Blondie was interested but he
was trying hard not to show it. When she was nearly finished
she held up a small mirror at the back of his head so he
could see in the mirror in front of him the intricate
braiding of hair and ribbon. It was the kind of hair
arrangement that would catch any man's attention -- and he
knew it.
Then, to his complete astonishment, she undid everything.
Soon his hair was back to the point from which she had
started. She handed him a brush.
"You do your hair the way I've just done it -- and be quick!"
she said curtly.
The boy tentatively dragged the brush through his hair and
grabbing locks of hair tried to tie them into a braid. The
result was a complete and utter mess; however, Queenie
refused to remedy the situation and made the boy serve
breakfast as he was.
He had to suffer the humiliation of the guffaws of laughter
from Boss and Homer seeing the dishevelled state of his hair.
Only Dutchie seemed to show sympathy for his plight by not
joining in their laughter; he just looked quizzically at
Blondie's normally neatly coifed hair.
"Being sleeping in the hay, girlie?" Boss snorted with
laughter, winking lewdly at Homer.
When Boss and his helpers had saddled up and departed for the
day, a stern-faced Queenie dragged her hapless assistant up
his bedroom.
"You disgraced me and every woman with your appearance!" she
stormed, pushing the cowering boy into a chair.
"Just look at your hair! You just don't get it, do you
girlie?" she spat. "Men judge you and me not by our brains
but by our appearance! How are you going to earn their
respect if you can't even arrange your hair? They were
laughing at you, girlie! Boss even said you look like a
whore!"
She picked up a brush.
"Do you want to look like a whore, girlie?" she demanded
ominously in a low voice. "Do you want men to laugh at you?
To mock your appearance? To call you a frump or Plain Jane
behind your back?"
The boy shook his head.
"Of course not -- you're not a dumb blonde! You want to learn
to look after your hair, to be able to braid it and plait it,
to curl it, and to arrange it so it looks pretty! Don't you,
girlie?" Queenie demanded. "Do you want to take pride in your
appearance? Do you want to command their respect?"
After a moment's hesitation, Blondie nodded his head.
"Say it, girlie!" Queenie shouted. "Say it like you really
mean it!"
"I want to do all these things; I want to make my hair
pretty!" the boy sobbed.
Queenie beamed.
"Good girl, we'll start with a simple pony-tail. I'll do it
first and then you'll do it second. I'll make you practice
every day until you can do it backwards, sidewards, upside
down, inside out and with your eyes closed!" she declared.
++++++++++++++++
Queenie never missed an opportunity to emphasize to Blondie
that in the men's eyes he'd crossed an invisible line beyond
which he would be considered weak, helpless and feminine.
This she planned to bring home to him in the most daring
scheme she had yet devised.
Even Blondie was surprized one night with the length of the
night-gown that she dressed him in -- it trailed on the floor
behind him as Queenie led him over to the mirror to fix his
hair for the night. But unlike previous nights too Queenie
did not braid his hair into two strands which she would wind
clock-wise around his crown. Instead she curled his hair
using small strips of white cloth which she tied around each
lock of hair.
When she was finished she smiled at his reflection in the
mirror.
"When I was your age I hated boys seeing me look like this ��
so I can understand how you feel, girlie!" she commented
sympathetically. "You know, it used to make me feel so
different from them; while they were out enjoying themselves
or doing something important I had to sit patiently for hours
while my mother curled my hair! But then, as I've told you
many times before, men just don't realize the trouble we take
to look after our appearance!"
Blondie said nothing; soon he was tucked in bed with his
wrists tied to the bed-post. Queenie blew out the candle and
softly locked the door behind her.
"Wake up, girlie!" Queenie shouted, shaking the boy's
sleeping frame.
"Whattssss the maaaaaattttter!?!" Blondie replied groggily.
"There's a fire outside! Hurry! Get up!" Queenie cried,
untying his wrists. "The old shed is on fire!"
Queenie dragged him out of the bed and quickly shod his feet
in a pair of high heeled ankle boots.
The boy shivered in the cold night air.
"Come on, girlie, let's go!" Queenie urged.
"I'm freezing in this! Can't I wear something else ... ?" the
boy beseeched her.
"We don't have time, girlie!" Queenie snapped impatiently.
Then she stopped, opened a closet and handed him a shawl.
"Here, put this around you -- this will keep you warm."
When they got outside they saw that Boss and the two boys
were already fighting the fire. Flames were leaping from the
shed and Boss was shouting orders to Homer and Dutchie.
"Stand by me, girlie," Queenie directed. She stood a safe
distance away from the fire and positioned him so that he was
slightly behind her.
After an hour Boss and the boys had the fire under control.
Queenie called out:
"Boss, are you all right?"
Boss nodded, sweat pouring down his smoke-grimed face.
"Yeh, I'm fine. Homer, Dutchie: you OK?"
The two boys nodded.
"Oh ... I'm so relieved you're not hurt!" Queenie cried in
the most gushing, effusive and emotional voice she could
muster. "Blondie and I were ... were so afraid! We wanted to
help but we couldn't -- could we, girlie?"
Boss and the two boys looked at her and then at Blondie.
'Feast you eyes on girlie, boys!' Queenie said gleefully to
herself. 'Isn't Blondie the picture of feminine
helplessness??? One hand holding a silk shawl around him to
keep warm and the other holding his pretty night-gown up off
the damp grass! Take a look at his hair!?! Gentlemen, have
you ever seen a head so festooned with ... ribbons? I can
guess what you're thinking: girlie's too busy making himself
look pretty that he couldn't put out a fire let alone a
candle!!!'
Boss spat at the ground. Then, a slow smile creased his face
and he turned to Homer and Dutchie.
"Y'know, the more I see of the value of some women, the more
I like dogs!" he quipped to Homer and Dutchie's raucous
laughter.
++++++++++++++++
Though Queenie had reduced Blondie to a passive, submissive
and feminine state underneath the surface she felt there
still burned a masculine ego. He still acted as if he had
nothing in common with her. He would only choose his clothes
for the following day if she made him.
Queenie decided it was time to step up his acceptance of his
femininity. She wrote a letter to her cousin Anita explaining
what she had in mind.
++++++++++++++++
"I overheard Homer and Dutchie talking about you yesterday."
While Queenie waited for Blondie to react she started to lace
him into the new whale-bone corset she had bought. Starting
at the top lace and working her way down, she pulled firmly
on the two ends of each lace and knotted them together.
For the past week she had kept Blondie isolated from Boss and
the two boys -- she had forbade him to be even in the same
room with them. She had confined him to the kitchen at meal-
times and locked him in his bedroom at other times they were
around. When they were alone together she had told him
stories -- some real, some fictitious -- though all with the
same theme: the vulnerability of women living in isolated
farmsteads to being terrorized by gangs of marauding men.
Right now, Queenie could see the boy was in two minds -- she
had reckoned he would be interested in hearing what Homer and
Dutchie had been saying about him but at the same time he
wouldn't want to engage her in conversation. She reckoned too
that he would want to know where Boss and the boys had gone.
"Yes?"
"Yes," she echoed. 'Come on, girlie, you've shown you're
interested -- you can't go back now!' she said gleefully to
herself.
As she worked her way down to his waist she pushed her knee
into the small of his back to gain greater leverage. She
could see the corset beginning to compress his waist into the
desired shape.
"What did they say about me?"
Queenie didn't reply immediately. Inwardly, she was gloating:
'My, Blondie! Six whole words -- that's more than you said
all of yesterday!'
Then she chuckled aloud.
"Men can be so ignorant about women at times!" she exclaimed
with a rueful laugh.
Blondie went pale and in a hurt tone asked: "What do you
mean? What were they saying about me? Please tell me!"
Queenie took hold of another lace and started to draw the
ends together.
"You remember yesterday when you dropped those spoons in the
kitchen at breakfast?" she asked. "Take another deep breath,
Blondie."
"Yes, I do: why?" Blondie replied, puzzled. He inhaled and
then grimaced with discomfort as the corset squeezed his
waist further.
"You remember Dutchie wanted to go in and help you pick them
up but I wouldn't let him?" Queenie continued.
"Yes, what about it?" Blondie answered. A warm glow briefly
surfaced on the boy's face and disappeared just as quickly --
but not before Queenie noticed it.
"Dutchie's such a gentleman, isn't he, girlie," she observed
smoothly.
"What were they saying about me?" the boy cried impatiently.
"They were talking about the way you picked up the spoons,"
Queenie replied enigmatically. She chuckled to herself
inwardly: 'I'm teasing you, Blondie! You'll have to talk to
me eventually -- and in the way I taught you!'
"The way I picked up the spoons ... ? I don't understand!"
Blondie cried in frustration. "Tell me!"
Queenie didn't reply; she continued lacing the corset.
The boy glanced over his shoulder at her.
"I'm sorry, Queenie, it wasn't very lady-like of me to talk
to you like that," he said meekly. "Please tell me: what did
they say about me?"
"They were trying to figure out why you picked up the spoons
like you did," Queenie responded.
"I still don't understand," the boy replied, shaking his
head.
"They were wondering why you had to bend from the knees and
why you had to keep your back straight," Queenie said.
"Oh."
Queenie finished lacing the corset. It was longer than any he
had worn previously, reaching down to the middle of his
thighs. The catalog had said it was suitable as a first
corset for girls entering puberty who required firm abdominal
control (Queenie smiled as she remembered the manufacturer's
euphemism for rigid). With the changes her cousin Anita's
potions were having on Blondie's body, her cast-off corsets
were no longer suitable. Already Blondie's nipples had become
swollen and sensitive and his budding breasts would soon need
the proper support of a girl's corset. Anita's 'Scarlet
Woman' medicine, as she jokingly called it (because it was
colored red and designed to feminize), was also working
wonders on smoothening the area between his legs: his penis
and testicles had shriveled so much that they nearly had
disappeared back inside his body.
"Like I said: men can be so ignorant about women!" she said
breezily. She let him digest this in silence as she handed
him a pair of stockings from the bed.
As she watched him pull one stocking at a time up his smooth,
hairless legs and fasten them to the suspenders, she reminded
herself -- not for the first time either -- how most women
would kill to have shapely legs like his.
When he was finished she passed him the first of his
petticoats from the bed.
'This is your least favorite underskirt, girlie!' she said to
herself as she watched him step in to the lace-trimmed
garment and pull it up to his waist. 'You detest the way it
squeezes your legs together! You despise, too, the way it
makes you take little dainty steps! Most of all, you hate the
way it makes you feel vulnerable -- vulnerable in a way only
a woman can understand: like us, if you're threatened by a
man, you know you won't be able to run!'
Four more petticoats followed; then, instead of giving him
the dress she had laid out on the bed she went over to the
closet and picked out a Sunday outfit. She knew he'd realise
the significance of her choosing a frilly dress rather than
the week-day dress on the bed: it meant the men weren't
around, it meant not having to tidy up after them, not having
to cook, it meant having a day to themselves, a day of
tranquillity, a day embroidering up at Lady's View with only
the babbling sounds of the river below to disturb them.
"Where did they go last night?"
It was the question Queenie had been expecting all morning.
"Did the men not tell you?" she asked insouciantly, taking
the dress off its hanger. "Maybe they didn't want to frighten
you!"
"Tell me what?" the boy asked, mystified and alarmed.
"Frighten me about what?"
Queenie gathered the dress up in her arms and lifted it over
the boy's head.
"Newsome's homestead -- a half a day's ride from here -- gang
of five men looted the place -- killed Pa Newsome," she said
in between guiding one arm into the sleeve and then the next
and lowering the dress down over his slender frame.
"They killed someone?!" Blondie asked, horrified.
"Sure did," Queenie answered, pulling on the hem of the dress
to make it sit better on the layers of petticoats. Then, she
added ominously: "And they raped Ma Newsome and her two
daughters ... "
"They what ... ?" the boy breathed in horror.
Queenie closed her eyes momentarily as if in silent prayer
and nodded her head.
"Where are they now?"
"Who?"
"The gang -- the men who raped ... "
"Don't know, girlie. Boss and the boys have gone to join a
posse to find them."
"But they could be coming this way!" Blondie yelped. "Who's
going to protect us ... what will we do if they come,
Queenie? We're defenceless ... !"
Queenie finished buttoning his dress at back.
"Don't fret, girlie," she commented comfortingly. "If anybody
comes just stay close to my side. I'll see that nothing
happens to you."
Inwardly, Queenie was exhilarated: Blondie was reacting in a
way that exceeded her wildest dreams. 'I can't wait for
Anita's new potion to arrive!' she thought ecstatically to
herself as she tied the sash of his dress.
"What'll happen if they realize I'm a ... " the panic-
stricken boy started to say.
Queenie put her finger to his lips.
"You mean what will happen when they realize you're a virgin?
That's what you meant to say, girlie, isn't it?" she replied
soothingly but with a menacing undertone.
Blondie nodded his head nervously.
"I won't let any man near you and even if they did they
wouldn't be able to take off that corset!" she said jokingly
to show him she wasn't worried.
She ran her fingers through the lace frills of his bodice and
looked into his terror-filled eyes.
"I guess that's why the men didn't tell you anything,
girlie," she said softly, leading him over to the mirror to
do his hair. "They didn't want you to get all jittery or
anything, girlie ... there's nothing worse than a man hates
in these situations than a panicky female ... "
++++++++++++++++
The annual outing to Lake Tataho had been a permanent fixture
in Queenie's married life since she and her husband since
they had come out west fifteen years ago. They had promised
each other that their first child would be baptised in the
lake. But when the stork failed to deliver the natural beauty
of the lake became a stark reminder to Queenie of her
barrenness.
This year Queenie felt more at ease, more serene on the ride
to Lake Tataho since any time in her marriage. She sat in the
middle with Boss holding the reins on her right and Blondie
sat passively on her left. Blondie and Dutchie rode on ahead
of them.
Though they had left shortly after sun-rise on the four hour
trip to the lake the heat was already uncomfortable. Boss was
in his usual surly mood after finishing a half bottle of
whisky the night before.
She hadn't expected Blondie to be so sulky and pouty. She had
assumed he would enjoy the opportunity to see the lake that
she had told him so much about. Perhaps it had been the heat
...
'Maybe I shouldn't have assumed too that he'd enjoy wearing
the dress that I wore for my graduation,' she thought to
herself. Though the silk batiste gown was over sixteen years
old it was still in perfect condition. She had taken pleasure
while she was dressing him of pointing out the details that
had made it the height of fashion: the gauged skirt with deep
flounces; the blouse with gathered frills of embroidered
batiste; the crushed taffeta belt.
"It's yours now," she had told him. The dress made him look
so gracious and feminine that she had fully expected him to
be pleased. But he had stood silently in front of the mirror
pointedly holding out his arms to show the fullness of the
balloon sleeves.
She felt somehow that he had slighted her choice of outfit.
Of course, in her glowing description of the dress she had
omitted to mention that balloon sleeves -- which had been
popular then -- had since given way to the much softer and
less fuller bishop sleeves.
Queenie was determined not to let her disappointment at his
reaction to her graduation dress jeopardize her day. But her
intuition told her that the episode warranted deeper
reflection.
They arrived at Lake Tataho in good time. Dutchie dismounted
from his horse and helped Queenie and a blushing Blondie down
from the carriage.
Boss and the two older boys headed down to the lake shore to
find logs for a fire while Queenie and Blondie unpacked the
lunch.
When the meal was over Homer and Dutchie headed off to
explore the far side of the lake. Boss retreated behind a big
rock and promptly fell asleep.
"Let's find somewhere to shelter from this sun," Queenie
suggested after they had finished tidying up. "Come on,
girlie, I think I see a place."
Blondie followed her up a small embankment where a group of
conifers afforded them some shade.
Queenie flopped down on the trunk of a fallen tree. Holding
her parasol in one hand she cooled her face with an ornate
lace fan with the other.
"Sit down beside me, girlie," she invited with a smile,
petting the tree to her left with a gloved hand. "You look so
pretty in that dress!"
The boy blushed and spreading his skirts sat down beside her.
Queenie reached over and touched her companion's forehead.
"My, you are warm ..." she started to say.
"Warm? You sound surprized! Do you know how many layers of
underskirts I'm wearing?" her companion interrupted
plaintively. "Actually, I'm persp --"
One look at Queenie's face was enough to stop the boy in mid-
sentence.
"Such an unlady-like thing to say, girlie!" she chided him
gently. "How many times have I told you: men perspire but
women ..."
"Glow," a chastised Blondie finished for her.
"I forgive you, girlie," Queenie continued with a smile. "In
this heat a woman can forget herself."
Her companion said nothing.
"You know, girlie," Queenie said, "to live on the prairie
you've got to be tough. The summers are long, hot and
oppressive and the winters are long, cold and severe -- last
winter there was snow flakes the size of my hand. My favorite
seasons are spring and fall but they're too short out here.
The prairie is a hard place: it's really a place for men -- a
woman doesn't really belong here at all. And for those of us
that do live her the prairie is a real lonesome place because
there is so few of us. We're so isolated from other women. We
need other people for company but men can go for days, even
weeks, without needing to talk to another soul."
Queenie fanned herself some more.
"Know something, girlie?"
"What?" Blondie replied, startled.
"To survive on the prairie a woman has got to be as tough as
a man," Queenie continued. "She's got to be like a man. That
sounds like a contradiction but in my opinion she's got to be
like a man. The prairie does that to you. Make sense to you?"
Blondie shrugged his shoulders.
"You get to be tough and self-sufficient. Though I'm from the
east coast I've been out here for fifteen years now and I
reckon that's what prairie life has done to me," Queenie went
on. "But don't get me wrong: when I said that to survive on
the prairie a woman has to be like a man I meant on the
outside. On the inside I'm still very much a woman. I have
feminine feelings -- for instance, I'd love to have children
-- and I think like a woman. I like to express my femininity
in the way I dress and the way I look."
She took hold of the boy's hands in her own.
"It's even harder for a girl on the prairie," she said
softly. The boy tried to free his hands but she wouldn't let
him. "Prairie girls can get easily confused by conflicting
signals; they grow up learning from their mothers and other
womenfolk that they are girls and that one day they will grow
up to be women. But they soon get to learn that to survive
out here on the prairie they have to be tough like a boy.
When I say tough I mean only on the outside, like a veneer --
on the inside their hearts, feelings and thoughts tell them
that they are feminine. That sense of confusion is heightened
by the onset of puberty -- by the fact that slowly their
bodies are becoming more woman-like and that soon they will
bear children."
Queenie took the boy's two hands in her left hand and
reaching over grasped his left elbow. Slowly, she drew his
elbow towards her so that they sat, knees touching, facing
each other. He offered no resistance when she once again took
his hands in hers and held them in her lap.
"I know you weren't born on the prairie, girlie," she said.
"But I reckon that living in the orphanage was like growing
up on the prairie. To survive you had to be tough -- all the
more difficult because of your small size. Home and Dutchie
have told me that there wasn't a tougher little nipper than
you in the whole orphanage!"
She paused.
"Only thing though, girlie: some people saw through you. They
knew you from the day you came to the orphanage. I'm talking
of people like Mrs. Mellon and Agnes -- you remember, Agnes
the nurse?" Queenie continued.
The boy slowly nodded his head.
"They saw through you, girlie, through that tough outer skin,
that veneer," Queenie continued. Then, she added softly:
"They saw through that ... facade."
"What facade? What do you mean?" her companion blurted out.
"The facade you put on to hide your life before you came to
the orphanage!" Queenie replied.
She saw her companion's lip tremble but he said nothing.
"This is hard on you, isn't it, girlie? Your past catching up
on you," she murmured sympathetically. "It was your big
sister who started it, wasn't it?"
Blondie didn't reply.
"Mrs. Mellon said she was a real beauty who loved pretty
clothes, but she was frustrated being the eldest of four boys
and not having any sister to enjoy!" Queenie said. "So when
you came along -- as a baby, you were weak and undersized for
your sex -- she resolved to make a sister out of you. Of
course, she couldn't do that without your mother's knowledge
and approval with whom she had a very close relationship.
Having provided your father with four male heirs, your mother
concluded that she had made her contribution and turned a
blind eye. Being both the youngest and physically small for
your age, you were picked on unmercifully by your four elder
brothers. Your sister offered to protect you from your
heartless brothers. Her protection, though, came with a
price: you had to become her little sister! Once she had you
in a dress and looking pretty, she made you feel safe! But,
best of all, she made you feel cherished and appreciated --
and beautiful!"
Queenie paused to see if Blondie would say anything but he
remained silent.
"She transformed you into such a sweet and winsome little
sister that it wasn't long before your mother put her
inhibitions behind her and she too became involved!" Queenie
continued. "And with your father being away in the navy they
had a free hand! Catching the fever at the age of three gave
your sister the pretext to move you into her room so she
could nurse you. The only thing, girlie, was this wasn't a
temporary move, this was for good -- you never moved back in
with your brothers again!"
"The two most powerful women in your life, girlie, dressing
you up as a girl! They made you feel special and wanted! And
you loved every minute of it! You were the center of their
attention and you loved it! You adored feeling pretty! You
were captivated by the beautiful clothes they dressed you in!
They taught you everything about being a girl -- and you
soaked it up like a sponge!" Queenie went on. "And being the
'new' girl in your family, your brothers dared not touch you
for fear of bringing the wrath of your mother and sister on
top of them! You were safe! But you knew you were only secure
as long as your mother and sister treated you as a girl. You
had to constantly reassure them that not only did you like
dressing as a girl but you wanted to be like one as well! And
that, girlie, was how you lived the first seven years -- the
most important seven years -- of your life!"
Queenie squeezed Blondie's hands.
"Then, one by one, your family was struck down by the
plague," she went on. "You were heart-broken and going to the
orphanage nearly destroyed you. Suddenly, you had to put all
your past behind you and to survive the orphanage you had to
be Mr. Tough Guy! But deep inside you, buried deep in your
innermost core, were those feminine qualities, waiting for a
moment -- any moment -- to reveal themselves!"
"That's ... that's not true!" Blondie whispered hoarsely.
Queenie saw tear drops rolling down his cheeks.
"Yes, girlie, it is true!" Queenie asserted quietly and
firmly. "Only some last vestige of misplaced masculine pride
is preventing you from revealing your true feelings! You're
not in the orphanage now! Leave your tough little guy act
behind, girlie! It's artificial, a sham -- I've seen through
it! You're here with me, girlie! I want you to be the real
you! I want the little girl --"
"Nooooooo!" Blondie wept, his face in his hands.
"Listen to me, girlie! You were raised as a girl -- and you
loved every moment of it! I want the little girl in you to
return! To feel pretty and dainty! Embrace your feminine
nature, girlie, stop running from it! Accept it and enjoy
it!" Queenie said gently. "You can't change your fate any
more than a river can change its path, girlie: it's your
destiny!"
Blondie shook his head.
Queenie sighed.
"If I can't convince you now, then maybe you'll listen to
your body," she said cryptically.
++++++++++++++++
"Girlie! What brings you here?"
Oh Dutchie -- you gave me such a fright!" Blondie gasped, his
hands automatically clasping his bosom.
"Where's Queenie? How come she's let you out on your own?"
Dutchie demanded.
"Shssssshhhhh! She's in the kitchen. Don't talk so loud --
she might hear us -- she'd give me a scolding if she caught
me talking to you!" Blondie whispered.
"Why doesn't she allow you to talk to us?" Dutchie asked,
perplexed. "You haven't said a word to me or Homer in
months!"
The younger boy's pale face colored with embarrassment. He
shrugged his shoulders helplessly.
"Come on, Blondie!" Dutchie pressed. "You must know a
reason!"
"She ... " the younger boy started but didn't finish.
"Why, for pete's sake, Blondie, why?" Dutchie exploded
impatiently.
"She says ... she says I've nothing to learn from men,"
Blondie answered in a low voice.
"You've nothing to learn from men?!" Dutchie repeated
incredulously.
Fighting back tears, Blondie nodded.
"What have you learnt from her? How to look like a woman? How
to wear a dress?" Dutchie demanded, his voice rising in
anger. "How to be a woman ... is that it, Blondie?"
Blondie made no reply but his expressive, limpid and kohl-
rimmed eyes silently implored Dutchie not to continue.
From her hiding place which allowed her to see and hear
everything that went on in the barn Queenie grinned. 'You
could cut the silence in there with a knife!' she gleefully
said to herself.
'You've got two ways in which you can react, girlie,' she
thought. 'Firstly, you can pretend you're still Mr. Tough Guy
underneath your feminine finery or, secondly, you can respond
in the way that corresponds with the way you look and with
the way I've taught you.' Her intuition told her that Blondie
would follow the latter course.
She congratulated herself on the new dress she had purchased
for Blondie. It simply radiated femininity; rose-colored in a
mixture of silk and cotton voile, its exquisitely embroidered
bodice hinted at a developing bust-line. Beside the large and
muscular Dutchie, the dress made Blondie look elegant and
petite.
Back inside the barn it was Dutchie who eventually broke the
silence.
"It's not raining in here, is it?" he said curtly, looking at
Blondie's head.
"Uh ... !?!" Blondie gasped in bewilderment. Then, realizing
what Dutchie was referring to, his slender hands rose and
carefully lifted off the shawl covering his hair. The boy
subconsciously tucked a strand of stray hair behind his ear.
He noticed Dutchie glaring at the shawl in his hand.
"My hair is so long now: if it gets wet, it takes ages to
dry!" Blondie smiled apologetically. Then seeing that Dutchie
still had a glare on his faced added with a pout: "Anyway,
Queenie made me!"
"Does she really make you wear dresses all the time?" Dutchie
blurted out.
Blondie, his cheeks reddening, was about to make a reply when
a movement caught his attention.
"Oh look -- a foal! It's so pretty!" he cooed, lifting his
skirts and going over to the animal lying in the straw.
"You poor creature, you're shivering!" Blondie exclaimed,
kneeling down. "Is she frightened of me, Dutchie?"
"I guess she's never seen a boy in a dress before" Dutchie
commented acidly.
Blondie flinched but said nothing.
"How old is she?" he asked, gently stroking the foal with his
hand.
"She's three days old," Dutchie replied.
"Where's her mother?"
"Out back yonder -- she doesn't want to know," Dutchie said.
"That's why I'm looking after her."
"The poor thing!" Blondie cooed sympathetically. Then, he
gave a squeal of delight: "Look, Dutchie, she's licking my
ring! She thinks it's food! Isn't it pretty, darling, look at
the way it sparkles in the light!"
There was a silence before Dutchie spoke.
"Does Queenie still keep you tied up?" he asked. "Me and
Homer saw you once with your hands tied behind your back."
"You saw me like that? When?" Blondie asked, surprized.
"Oh, I don't remember when exactly ... it was a long time
ago, we saw you through your bedroom window."
"That was a long time ago," Blondie agreed.
"So she doesn't tie you up any more?"
"No, not now ..." Blondie responded slowly. "I guess she
knows I won't ..."
"Escape?" Dutchie finished.
Blondie nodded.
"Why not, girlie, I mean, Blondie? Why couldn't you escape?"
Dutchie pressed.
Blondie sighed and stood up to face Dutchie. He shook some
straws from his dress.
"Look at me," the youngster said. "What do you see?"
Dutchie looked confused.
"I see you ..." he replied slowly.
Blondie shook his head impatiently.
"I've changed, Dutchie, I'm no longer the person you knew,"
the slightly built youngster said. "Queenie's changed me --
look at me again, Dutchie, and tell me what you really see!"
"I see a boy in ... in a dress ... " Dutchie began slowly and
then stopped.
"Go on," Blondie prompted.
"That's all," Dutchie said weakly.
"That's all? Oh, Dutchie, there's much more -- much more!"
Blondie exclaimed with feeling. "Look at my hair: it's
braided. You know who braided it this morning? I did! Yes,
Dutchie, I braided it (I did it in ten minutes -- it used to
take me half an hour!). Yesterday I had pony-tails, I did
them too! I can do every thing a girl can do with her hair!"
Dutchie said nothing.
"Do you know what happened to me yesterday?" Blondie went on.
"I finished my first ever embroidery frame without any help
from Queenie!"
Dutchie shook his head in silent astonishment.
"I'll let you in on a secret, Dutchie: do you know what gave
me my biggest thrill lately?"
Dutchie shook his head again. He saw Blondie suck in a deep
breath of air.
"See this dress I'm wearing?" Blondie asked.
Dutchie nodded: "Yeah, what about it?"
"I got it two weeks ago -- " Blondie started.
"What about it?" Dutchie repeated.
"Oh, Dutchie, don't you notice anything?" Blondie asked in
exasperation. Seeing the blank look on his companion's face
he went on with a sigh: "You wouldn't notice these things but
a woman would."
"Notice what?" Dutchie snorted.
"First of all, it's a new dress and it's all the fashion on
the east coast --" Blondie began.
"And that gave you your biggest thrill? That it's fashionable
on the east coast?" Dutchie asked in wonderment.
"No, ... well, maybe a little bit," Blondie conceded. "No,
Dutchie, my biggest thrill was that it was my first dress!"
"Your first dress?" Dutchie asked, confused.
"Yes, Dutchie, this is _my_ dress," Blondie answered quietly.
"You see, up to now I've being wearing Queenie's hand-me-
downs. They never really fitted me. Queenie got this dress
specially for me. I know you won't understand, Dutchie, but
it makes me feel like a new person ..."
From her hiding place Queenie could see the look of distaste
on Dutchie's face. Pleased with the way Blondie had reacted
so far she decided it was time to intervene. Her intuition
told her that Blondie was ready for the second acid test of
femininity she had planned. She called Blondie making it
sound like she was calling from the kitchen.
"Dutchie, that's Queenie calling, I've got to go!" Blondie
said to Dutchie in a panic.
"What did you come here for?" Dutchie asked quickly.
"She asked me to get a bag of potatoes," Blondie replied.
"They're over there," Dutchie said, pointing to the far
corner of the barn behind him.
He stepped back to let Blondie pass. As he did so, Queenie
saw him wrinkle his nose. 'Yes, Dutchie, I know what you're
thinking,' she giggled to herself, 'he smells like one too!'
Blondie found the bag and tried to lift it.
Queenie chuckled to herself when she saw Blondie look around:
there was a look of recognition on his face.
'Good for you, Blondie! Your feminine intuition has just told
you that I've set you up! You've just realized two things --
One: a girl wouldn't be expected to lift a heavy sack of
potatoes. Two: even if she had to, she certainly wouldn't be
wearing her best dress!' she giggled to herself. 'Let's see
how you get out of this situation! I've told you a thousand
times: the number one rule for any girl in your predicament
is to use your womanly charms to get a man to help you.'
She saw Blondie look at Dutchie.
"Dutchie, could you help me with this sack please?" he asked
sweetly. "It's too heavy for me: I need someone big and
strong like you."
Dutchie's mouth fell open in astonishment; then without a
word he went over to where Blondie was standing and
effortlessly lifted the sack over his shoulder.
"Thank you, Dutchie, you're such a gentleman!" Blondie smiled
up at him in gratitude.
Dutchie grunted in embarrassment.
Seeing that it was still raining outside Blondie threw the
shawl over his head and keeping his skirts lifted off the wet
grass led the way back to the house.
++++++++++++++++
"I feel sick!" Blondie announced suddenly.
"What's the matter, girlie?" Queenie asked.
"My tummy feels like I've a cramp," Blondie complained.
"Maybe you'd like to lie down for a little while?" Queenie
suggested sympathetically. "Come with me."
Surprized, Blondie nodded and followed the woman upstairs to
his bedroom. She made him take off his ankle boots and lie on
the bed. Dampening a cloth in a bowl of water she wiped his
brow.
"You see if you can get some sleep," she said softly.
The boy looked at her with suspicion but then his eyes closed
as he drifted off to sleep. The woman smiled: he plainly
wasn't used to this caring treatment from her. She left the
room and went downstairs.
Later in the evening she went up to the room. The room was
bathed in moon-light and she saw that the boy was half awake.
"There's a full moon tonight," Queenie commented
conversationally as she closed the curtains. The boy tried to
sit up in bed.
"How are you now, girlie?" she asked.
"OK, --" he started. Then, he groaned in pain: "Something's
not right ... my drawers feel damp ..."
"Let me have a look," Queenie said commandingly. She peered
between his petticoats and then reached in to take off his
drawers.
"Just a little bit of blood," she said calmly, showing him
the soiled drawers.
"Blood!" the boy moaned in terror. "I'm going to die!"
"There's no need to worry, girlie, I'll put something on to
soak anything more up," Queenie replied soothingly. "The
first time is the worst. You'll be all right in a few days.
In the meantime, get plenty of rest."
Queenie refused to answer any of his queries regarding the
discharge of blood but assured him that it would pass.
The boy was excused from duties for the next two days. He
stayed in bed and Queenie attended to him day and night.
Gradually, his cramps disappeared and his appetite returned.
Four weeks went by and then the cramps re-appeared. Queenie
gave him the same sympathetic treatment as before excusing
him from work. She changed his soiled drawers regularly. At
night-time she sat by his bedroom window doing her embroidery
in the light of the moon. Queenie guessed he was too proud to
ask her what was happening to him but she knew that he was
scared.
As before and as Queenie had foretold, after two days he was
well enough again to return to his duties.
One morning a week later they were getting ready to do the
laundry. Queenie was an irritable mood that day and had given
Blondie a number of verbal tongue lashes. She sent him up to
her bedroom to collect clothes for the laundry knowing full
well what he would see. They washed the clothes outside in
the large wooden tub; Blondie made no comment when a red
stain ran from her white drawers.
Three weeks later Blondie's cramps returned. This time
Queenie didn't allow him to go to bed despite his obvious
discomfort. Instead she bought him up to his bedroom every
few hours to change his drawers.
When Boss and the boys returned that evening they found
Queenie had prepared their favorite meal. She even allowed
Homer and Dutchie to have beer with their dinner -- something
she had never allowed before. It wasn't long before the sound
of shouting and drunken laughter filled the room. She and
Blondie had their dinner quietly in the kitchen.
"I think they're finished inside now, girlie, bring in the
dishes," Queenie told her assistant a little later.
Queenie watched as the boy gathered his skirts and check his
appearance in the mirror as she had taught him before going
hesitantly into the room where Boss and the boys were eating.
Queenie noted with glee how they made fun of Blondie's pale
and drawn appearance. Then winking to each other the men
raised their empty beer mugs.
"More beer, girlie!" they teased him, pulling at the sleeves
of his dress to grab his attention.
When Blondie returned to the kitchen Queenie noticed that he
was close to tears.
"Why didn't you allow me to lie down today like the last
time?" he complained bitterly.
"Because you don't see me lying down, do you?" she snapped.
"But you don't have ..." the boy started and then fell
silent. Queenie smiled to herself: he had made the
connection. She took Blondie by the arm and led him up to his
bedroom. She sat the puzzled boy down on the bed.
"Look out the window," she told him.
"What's there to see? I can't see anything," he said,
mystified. "It's dark outside. There's only the moon ..."
"Only the moon," Queenie repeated cryptically.
"That's it! I always get the cramps ... when there's a moon
..." Blondie said slowly, looking up at her.
Queenie said nothing.
"It's something about the moon that gives me the cramps!"
Blondie cried.
Queenie smiled and shook her head.
"What is it then? Please tell me!" her younger companion
pleaded, his voice suddenly trembling with emotion.
She sat down on the bed beside Blondie and held his arms in
against his sides.
"It's not the moon, girlie," she said softly. "It's just your
time of the month ..."
"My time of the month?!" Blondie bleated in terror. "What do
you mean?"
"Your time of the month is now, girlie. Next week it will be
my turn," Queenie replied enigmatically.
"You mean I'll have cramps every month?" Blondie cried in
despair.
Queenie nodded.
"It's ... it's so ... so awful ..." the boy said wildly.
"Who said being a female was easy?" Queenie replied calmly.
The boy looked shocked. Queenie had trained him to verbally
deny his gender; now she seemed to be suggesting something
else ...
"Girlie, every female gets these cramps: they're your body's
way of preparing you for womanhood -- " Queenie began.
"Agggggghhhhhhh! I don't believe it!" Blondie screamed
hysterically.
Queenie shook the sobbing, quivering boy.
"Hush, girlie, and listen to me!" she urged.
Blondie's sobs eventually subsidised.
"You're a girl now -- the cramps you get prove that without a
shadow of doubt!" Queenie continued. "Boss doesn't get them;
nor does Homer or Dutchie. Just you and me, girlie."
Blondie opened his mouth to say something but no words came
out.
"Men don't understand what a woman has to go through every
month -- the pain, the discomfort, the misery. They don't
know and even if they did they wouldn't care. Did Boss or
Homer show any signs of caring earlier this evening for what
you're going through?" she challenged. Then she added with a
wry smile: "Or even Dutchie?"
Remembering his treatment at the dinner table, Blondie slowly
shook his head.
"I do, girlie, I know what it's like," Queenie continued
softly. "I can help you, girlie, but you must let me help
you."
"How?" Blondie sniffed.
Queen spoke to her younger companion for over an hour.
"So, remember, girlie, the golden rule is ... ?" she asked in
conclusion.
"Women must stick together," Blondie gulped.
"I think you can do better than that, girlie," she prompted
gently.
There was a silence. Queenie raised her eye-brows
expectantly.
"We ... we women must stick together," came the whispered
reply.
++++++++++++++++
"I can't make it out," Dutchie said.
"Can't make what out?" Homer replied.
It was Sunday afternoon and they were lying on the river
bank.
"You know, girlie, I mean, Blondie," Dutchie replied.
"What about girlie?" Homer returned.
"I dunno, something's changed ... between Blondie and
Queenie," Dutchie said.
"Changed? Changed in what way?" Homer challenged. "I don't
see any change. It's been the same for the last few months."
"Well, take a look at them up there," Dutchie said, nodding
his head in the direction of the hill overlooking the river.
Homer turned around and looked.
"They're just talking, that's all," he said.
"Well, that's a change, that's a big change!" Dutchie
observed. "In the beginning you'd never see them talking --
or even sitting together. Blondie used to have to stand up
all the time or sit alone on a rug. Homer, look! They're
laughing!"
"Maybe you're right, Dutchie. Queenie does seem in better
form these days. We've had beer at dinner for the last two
nights!" Homer replied with a grin on his face. He leant back
on the grass and looked up at the cloudless blue sky. "I
don't care what those two dames do together so long as I get
a beer for dinner!"
"All you think of is beer, you nit-picker!" Dutchie
exclaimed. He continued to look up in the direction of the
hill.
"Oh yeah! How come you always get more beer than I do then?"
Homer challenged.
"What? What are you talking about?"
"You know what I'm on about. Girlie always gives you more
beer than I get!" Homer observed sourly.
"Hogwash! You're imagining it, Homer!" Dutchie scoffed.
"Yes, she does, I've seen her; she's always favoring you!"
Homer charged.
Dutchie just laughed and shook his head.
"She gives you more meat too!" Homer added angrily.
"You're losing your brains, Homer, or what's left of them!"
Dutchie retorted. Then, he got up and stripped off his
trousers: "I could do with a swim. Last one to the far side
is the loser!"
++++++++++++++++
It was just after noon and even though it was late fall it
was still very hot.
They were sitting on a bench beneath a sycamore tree whose
leafy branches shaded them from the burning rays of the sun.
"If I could, I'd spend all day brushing my hair!"
Queenie looked up from her sewing and smiled at her
companion. She watched as Blondie's arm rose and fell in
smooth even strokes.
"A woman can never take too much care of her hair," she
observed. "You've such beautiful hair -- it really pleases me
how well you look after it!"
Blondie gave a light, tinkling laugh: "You're so kind,
Queenie! But I know that look in your eyes -- it's time to do
my chores now ... right?!"
Queenie nodded with a smile and watched her younger companion
gather the blonde shoulder-length hair and deftly twist it
into a bun, securing it with a pin. Then Blondie picked up a
shirt from a wicker basket at their feet.
"Two holes in one day!" Blondie exclaimed in exasperation,
reaching for needle and thread. "How does Dutchie do it?"
"I bet he didn't even notice!" Queenie chuckled. "Men prefer
not to notice these things -- nor do they care! They'd sooner
dress in rags then mend their clothes. That's why they need
us women!" she added.
They sewed in silence for a little while.
"Blondie?"
"Yes?"
"Have you thought any more about what we were talking this
morning?"
"Yes, ... a bit."
"Am I right?"
"Queenie ... I ... I don't believe I fancy Dutchie ... honest
I don't!"
Queenie said nothing; Dutchie's little stammer would have
passed unnoticed but for the tell-tale blush.
Queenie, sensing Blondie's discomfiture at her direct line of
questioning, decided to change tactics.
She bent down and rummaged in the wicker basket. "There's
just this little tear in Homer's trousers, Blondie, and we're
done for today. I'll finish off Dutchie's shirt for you if
you do Homer's. Will you --?"
"No, I want to finish this! Homer's trousers can wait!"
Blondie interrupted petulantly. "Dutchie's shirt is more
important ..."
Queenie put down her sewing.
"Blondie," she began gently, "we've agreed never to keep
anything from each other ... you can tell me ... maybe I can
help?"
++++++++++++++++
"Queenie, are you finished yet? How do I look?" Blondie
asked, shivering with giddy excitement.
"Blondie, will you keep still while I fix your hem?" Queenie
replied. She stood up as Blondie struck a pose in front of
the mirror.
"That new dress really looks pretty on you!" she smiled. "Do
a twirl for me."
Blondie, standing on tip toes, pirouetted around, making the
long skirt flare out in tandem.
"Blondie, pretend I'm Dutchie: show me how you grab my
attention!" Queenie called.
With both hands Blondie lifted the cerise-colored skirt a few
inches off the ground to reveal white lace-trimmed petticoats
underneath. Then, moving towards her, starting with the right
hand and alternating with the left, Blondie ruffed the skirt
against the petticoats making a distinctive swishing noise.
Queenie smiled: it was one of the oldest feminine flirting
tricks in the book -- instead of simultaneously holding up
your skirts and petticoats as you walked you just held up
your skirt giving men a glimpse of your petticoats and
stockinged ankle underneath.
"More ... more beer, Dutchie ...?" Blondie cooed demurely,
eye-lashes fluttering.
Queenie kissed Blondie on the cheek. Impulsively, they hugged
each other.
"Queenie, what will I do then?" Blondie giggled, eyes shining
bright with excitement.
"What will you do then?" Queenie mused. Then, she burst out
laughing: "You tighten the noose and you rein him in ...!"