Date: Sun, 17 May 2009 12:08:33 -0700 (PDT)
From: jimiboygirl@yahoo.com
Subject: Transgender/Teen/Jimis Secret Diary/ 05 dear diary: may 20, 1965

The following is a work of fiction and fantasy.



05 dear diary: may 20, 1965



thursday, may 20, 1965

dear diary

continues

"do you remember, jimmy?"

"i have one just like it at home."

she smiled then.

i turned the little key on the side of the box. it began to play "tea for
two" in a tinkling, metallic tone. the ballerina rotated slowly as the tune
began. memories of that christmas began to emerge from fog and come back to
me. i was four. maybe five. it was a gift from helen at the end of the year
that i had stayed with her for a few months, here, in this house. mother
had taken a secretarial position in the city and was staying with a college
friend during the week, only visiting on weekends. dad had left,
apparently, and mother needed the income. it was a lonely time, but helen
was good to me and we had made the best of the separation from mother.

"back in a jiffy, love."

. . .

yes, i did have one exactly like it at home. a little pink stain music box
with a ceramic figurine of a little blonde ballerina on top, dressed in a
pink tutu with white ruffles. i wound the key on the side of the box and a
familiar tune began to play in a high, tinny, mechanical pitch. and as it
did, the lyrics from an old broadway show came back to me. my mother had
the original cast soundtrack phonograph album and we would sometimes sing
it together. the show was "no, no nanette", and the album was a gift
from... aunt helen:

picture you -- upon my knee
just tea for two -- and two for tea
just me for you -- and you for me...alone-

something something something, then

day will break -- and I'll awake
and start to bake --  a sugar cake
for you to take -- for all the boys to see

we will raise -- a fam-il-y
a boy for you-- a girl for me
can't you see -- how hap-py we would be...

as the tune played and i absently watched the ballerina pirouette
endlessly, other, nearly forgotten lyrics started to emerge from the foggy
corners of my memory, sung by a female in an echo-like and hazy quality, as
if in a dream:

picture you -- upon my knee
just tea for two -- and two for tea
just me for you -- and you for me...alone

i'm like you -- and you're like me
a girl like you -- a girl like me
two girls are we -- a secret for you and me alone

pretty face and pretty hair
skin so soft -- and skin so fair
there's so much -- that we will share
some day.

i'm like you -- and you're like me
a girl, its true -- is what you'll grow to be.

helen.

it was helen who taught me those lyrics. soft focus and dreamlike images of
a steamy bathroom emerged from the shadows. i was sat in a tub... on a
woman's lap. we were bathing together in warm, soapy water. that wasn't in
itself too unusual. i had bathed with my mother regularly from the time i
can remember until i was about six or seven years old and only ceased when
i 'became too curious' as she had put it... but it wasn't my mother
singing.... the woman was shampooing my hair and singing to me. i was about
four or five ... i was - or had been - crying. shampoo had run into my eyes
and burned. the woman... it was helen! ten or twelve years younger, her
figure less matronly than the merry widow shape she has now... younger,
smaller yet still amply white breasted, and newly divorced... helen was
pouring warm water over my head from a pitcher, washing away the suds and
soothing me with her gentle singing.

her parody of the tea for two song was lost on me. she was just singing to
me. she sang that song to me many, many times.

i sat in front of her, between her legs in the tub. i now distinctly
remember seeing her sopping wet vagina, its reddish curls saturated... and
i remember hearing her heartbeat, loud and regular, my head in her bosom,
her hands stroking my wet hair. i see a large darkish pink circle before me
and i nuzzle it, and begin suckling. was it my thumb? no... i think not. it
had to be helen's breast. had she offered it to me to soothe my crying, or
had i just turned and, finding a nipple, begin to suckle spontaneously?
whatever the circumstance, her heartbeat was clearly audible, as was her
deep, regular breathing and the sound of the warm water lapping our two
naked forms in the steamy atmosphere of the bath.

other images came to me: we are out of the tub, she in a towel and another
atop her head, turban-like. i am being patted dry and am wrapped in a large
fluffy towel...pink. i'm sure. she is then powdering me: chest, arms, legs,
bottom...was it baby powder? i was over that by this stage of my life... or
was it something else? talcum powder? whatever it was, i remember a slight
floral scent and then the feel of slick hands lightly massaging me,
especially around my bottom parts. was it baby oil? ... or some type of
special skin cream... for women?

then:

aunt helen again on her knees, holding open something for me to step
into. pink and shiny and nearly see through. i see lovely white lacy
edges.... they are women's panties. helen was dressing me in women's
panties. probably a pair of her own, they are so large that the elastic in
the waistband is loose and floppy. they can't stay up by themselves, but
slowly slide down my body repeatedly. i have to held them up with both
hands.

i am instructed to raise my arms then, and another garment is held out by
her. i obey, of course, and the panties fall down around my ankles and we
both giggle uncontrollably. i see a safety pin being opened and then the
panties don't slip down anymore, though they are still voluminous... and
see through around me and each leg opening is wide enough for both of my
little legs.

again i hold up both arms and a large tent-like garment of pink lacy
material goes over my head and falls about me. it is a nightie, or
camisole, or a full slip... the breast cups are at my tummy level and i am
in danger of tripping. helen takes a ribbon and ties it around the middle,
forming a sash. another safety pin is opened and then the breast cups
suddenly are where they belong and the hem is above my ankles. it looks
like a little pink lacy dress on me.

i am led into her bedroom and helped onto the bench of her dressing
table. there are three mirrors on the table's surface and i can see my
reflection from each angle. helen, still in towel and turban, begins to
slowly brush my damp, longish blonde hair. she uses her fingers to make
curls behind each of my ears and at the nape of my neck. she hums a few
more bars of tea for two before launching into another softly rendered, old
fashioned song.

she's my lady-love.
she is my dove -- my baby-love.

she's no girl for sitt-ing down to dream.
she's the only girl La-gu-na knows.

i know she likes me.
i know she likes me
because she said so.

she is my li-ly of la-gu-na.
she is my lily  -- and my rose.

pleased with the look she has given me, as a final flourish, she ties a
pink bow in my hair, and draws a little lipstick smile on me.

i am told to say 'cheese' and then a flash blinds me momentarily. i
remember many such sudden camera flashes during my stay with aunt helen...

the soft focus images of my memory fail me after this point.

the ballerina is now pirouetting more slowly as the tune winds down and i
realize i have been gazing at it the whole time, perhaps a span of two
minutes or less. the ballerina stops. i think of winding it up again, but
instead, i try to open the music box, using the tiny lever beneath the edge
of the lid.

it pops open.

inside is a small carboard folder with a string fastener. i untie it and
peer inside. i remove a slightly smaller glassine envelope with the words
"hollins studio photography" written in a formal printed script. below
that, the address of a main street photo studio printed on it. the camera
shop is still there, and mister hollins apparently still does the yearbook
and graduation photos for the school as well as weddings and camera and
film sales and processing. he also specializes in portraits and studio
photography, according to the envelope.

i unfold the glassine envelope and slide out one of the dozen or so
scalloped-edge black and white photographs inside. the processing date is
imprinted on the border. april 1953. though it is over a decade old, the
photo is like brand new.

it is a picture of a three or four year old happy-looking girl in a
ballerina outfit. her hair is in soft ringlets. the photo looks to be home
made, probably shot inside somebody's home.

her face is very familiar.

of course, it is.

it's me.

i slide the rest of the photos out to examine. some are of me alone. in
others i am with aunt helen (using a self timer obviously) and am either
dressed as mommy's little helper (stood an a chair in the kitchen in frilly
blouse and skirt and apron as we wash dishes), or as little go-to-bed baby
in pretty nighties and slippers carrying a dolly, or as a ballerina, or a
cowgirl in fringed skirt and side-tied neckerchief. there is also
shot... this one different from the others inasmuch as it is of mother and
i. in that lone photo, we are outside, my mother in smart suit and hat and
gloves and me in short pants and buster browns and a boy's shirt holding an
easter basket.

i am still looking at the photos when i hear helen calling out in her
cheery voice at the top of the ladder and bearing a covered tray...

"tea for two, lovey."



continued.



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