Changed into a Girl
At the sound of the alarm, I got out of bed and looked at the full-length mirror on the door to my closet. I was wearing a blue, ankle-length nightgown, even though it was the middle of summer. When I had gone to bed, I was wearing a pink mini-gown, but I was used to things changing without warning. In fact, I expected it.
Two years before, I had been a wrestler and shot-putter. I often won shot-put events because no one else entered. I was competitive in wrestling, usually qualifying for the sub-state regionals or the equivalent. One night, however, as I was riding home on the activity bus (the one for kids that stayed after school for practice) from track practice, I fell asleep and almost missed my stop. When I woke up, I felt different somehow. The next morning, I woke up as a girl.
I was at first afraid to tell my family, but there was little I could do that first morning. I was shocked when they called me by a girl's name and acted like nothing happened. In fact, I realized that my female persona had an entire history that was in many respects different from my own as a male—yet in others, identical. In my female persona, I had never played sports, thought I played the piccolo in a chamber music orchestra. I had placed second or third or gotten an honorable mention in some talent shows, but I never had won anything. I didn't really like the instrument, but I could play it, and I often did it for relaxation. This was always a bit interesting, since I had never played any musical instrument before my transformation.
I tried to open the closet door, but couldn't. I would not get dressed before breakfast, and I couldn't open the closet before it was time for me to dress. No problem, since I never dressed before breakfast anyway. I went to the kitchen in my nightie. I sometimes got to put on a bathrobe, but not today. Mom kissed me like I'd always been her daughter. Dad didn't, but he never kissed anyone, not even Mom.
Breakfast was the usual—bacon and eggs with toast. I ate mine at my usual slow speed. "Hurry up, dear, or you'll be late," Mom said. She always said that. After I finished, I went back to my room and checked my closet. It was still locked, so I'd have to wait till after I brushed my teeth to get dressed. Sometimes I would get to put on my underwear at this time, but this was not one of those days.
After brushing my teeth and putting on a little bit of makeup, I tried the door again. Three half slips were hanging, two white and one black. One of the white ones had a slit in it. I hate slits, so I chose the other white one. I closed the door and put it on under my nightie. I opened it again, and this time a pair of knee-highs showed up. I closed the door and put them on, but wondered why I would need to wear them, especially since they ended far below the hem of the slip.
I opened the door again and found a pair of camisoles. I had never worn camisoles. Both were white, but one had adjustable straps—so I put on the other one. Again, I closed the door. Usually, the closet would give me the day's full get-up at once, but today it was making me take my time. I had to take off my nightie to put on the cami, so now I was lacking only a bra—which I rarely wore anyway—and underwear—which I always wore.
When I opened the door the next time, I found I had the choice of a couple of T-shirts with writing on them and a couple of jean skirts. I didn't like either shirt, so I went eeny-meeny-miney-mo to pick out one. One of the skirts had a slit in the back, while the other one looked like it had been made out of a pair of boys' jeans. Since I don't like slits, I chose the skirt that once been pants.
After putting on the T-shirt and jean skirt, I went back to the closet for underwear. The door didn't open. My mother called me and told me it was time to go. I opened the door again, and saw nothing inside. That meant I was done, and I wouldn't be wearing underwear. I slammed the closet door in disgust. Except for when I'm having my monthly period, I've never worn underpants since.
Actually, there have been a few occasions when I've worn underwear when it wasn't my monthly period. The first one happened a few months after the events related above. It was mid-November. There was no special occasion that I was aware of coming up. Thanksgiving was a few days off. Homecoming had come and gone in early October. We had done some Christmas shopping; we had relatives living overseas and Mom had wanted to send them stuff early so it would get there in time.
I had gone to bed wearing a flannel nightie and socks—a good thing, as it was a cold night. I was surprised to find underwear hanging in the closet when I opened the door. It wasn't my time of the month, but I quickly realized the panties hanging up weren't the kind worn during menstruation. One was a bikini-type, another looked like a boy's boxers, while another was a pair of pettipants—the kind you wear under a square-dance costume. However, all were crotchless. I put on the pettipants, which came down almost to the knees. I closed the door and went to breakfast. I wondered if the panties would show through my nightie, which I was still wearing, but Mom and Dad had left a note saying they were going shopping, so I was all alone.
After breakfast, I went back to the closet to find a selection of nearly ankle length slips. One was a massive petticoat, while the others were straight slips. I chose the petticoat, since it seemed to go with the pettipants I was already wearing. I closed the door and put it on under my nightie.
I opened the door again, this find to find a choice of bras, all of them strapless. I chose one that I thought would stay in place and put it on. I closed the door and opened it again, where I now found a selection of long strapless, sleeveless dresses. Although I didn't like the color, I put on a light green one and managed to zip it up in the back.
I still had to put on stockings and shoes, and was a bit surprised when I got athletic socks to wear under the dress. I hadn't worn athletic socks since the change. Stranger still were the cowboy boots that I would wear over them. The closet gave me a jean jacket to wear over the dress. I didn't really like it, but it was better than going half-naked in the dress. I hoped I would be able to change at school. (One of the janitor's closets there sometimes gave me a change of clothes.)
At school, I noticed a few other girls dressed as I was, and nobody seemed to think it strange how any of us were dressed. A few boys were in clothes that belonged to maybe a hundred years ago. Then I remembered that we were going to re-enact some of the stuff of everyday life in the late 1800s.
We had an assembly between 5th and 6th periods where we performed our little skit. I didn't have to learn any lines, since I was an extra. A couple of other girls and I talked and snickered, as if we were flirting with or laughing at other boys who were also extras. I don't think anyone noticed us, however. Maybe they thought it was part of the act.
AFter the show was over, I checked my closet to see if I would be allowed to change into something different for the rest of the day. All the closet offered me was a change of panties; there were no modern dresses. I declined the change, as the pettipants at least kept my legs warm. However, as I started to walk away, I noticed that my legs felt lighter and cooler, and I realized that I should have chosen the panties. Now, I would be bare underneath the rest of the day. I didn't worry too much, since I was still in a long dress with a long petticoat underneath—until much of the petticoat vanished and my dress suddenly ended about three inches above my knees. It didn't help that it was a windy day, that I had to walk home, or that my backpack broke leaving me to carry my books in my hand all the way home. I learned never to refuse something from the janitor's closet again.
One other occasion in which I got to wear regular panties when it wasn't my time of the month happened when I got a job at Lou's Take-Away, the closest thing our neighborhood had to a McDonald's or Burger King.
Although I had gone to bed the night before in a long flannel gown, I woke up wearing a denim miniskirt and T-shirt. I was surprised to find I was already completely dressed, but decided to check the closet to see if there was anything else I needed. Well, there were a pair of boxer shorts. I had worn such underpants a few times when I was a guy, though I preferred briefs. Still, I put them on and went in to breakfast. I hoped my skirt would cover them up adequately, but it evidently did.
After breakfast, I took the application I had filled out the night before to the Take-Away. Lou owned and managed the place, and after a brief interview he told me to come in the next day at noon. He asked me what size clothes I wore, then gave me a dark red shirt and a pair of black slacks, which he told me would be my uniform. I would have to wash and press them every day, but he would give me a second set of clothes in a week or so. (He had a reputation as being tough on new hires, so he was probably afraid I'd quit after a couple of days.) I didn't tell him that I would not be able to wear pants, since I knew he would fire me even before hiring me.
I didn't put my uniform in the closet that evening, since I feared that it would disappear and cost me my job. I left it out on a hanger hooked over the dooknob on my bedroom door. However, when I woke up the next morning, I found myself wearing the uniform. Naturally—I suppose—the pants had changed into a mid-length skirt, though of the same color and material. I checked the closet door to see if it would open, and I found a pair of dark, knee-high nylon stockings, so I put them on. The skirt had an inverted pleat in front that made it look like a pair of slacks, so I hoped that would fool Lou into thinking I was wearing his uniform.
Lou had shown me how to clock in, which I did when I got to his restaurant at 11:58. He wasn't there, but some of the other employees who were, and were getting ready to take a lunch break, showed me how to prepare hamburgers and cheeseburgers, as well as warm up pizza slices. "We'll show you how to use the cash register later," said Carla, the assistant manager.
Things went well till the end of my shift at six. Lou called me into his office and asked why I wasn't in uniform. "I'm wearing what you gave me," I said.
"No, you're not!" he barked. "I gave you a dark red shirt—"
"Which I'm wearing—"
"Don't interrupt me."
"Sorry."
"I also gave you a pair of black slacks. Where are they?"
"I'm wearing what you gave me," I said again.
Lou fumed. "Look, we have uniforms here. It's for your safety and to keep you looking professional. Red shirts, black slacks; red shirts, black slacks."
"I'm wearing what you gave me," I said for the third time.
"Come to work tomorrow properly dressed or today will be your last day here,"
"I'll wear what you gave me," I said.
"So, how was work today?" asked Mom as I got home.
"Okay," I yawned. I didn't know what I was supposed to say or do about my uniform, but I figured things would somehow work out—if I was supposd to keep the job.
The next morning, I found the red shirt hanging froon the closet doorknob. I opened up the closet to find a whole bunch of black skirts with inverted pleats. All the skirts looked the same until I noticed that some had an inverted pleat both in the front and back. At first, I thought they might be culottes, but soon realized all were really skirts. I also found a selection of half slips, and put on a black one that seemed to be about the length of the skirts. I put on a skirt with front and back pleats, so I was already dressed when I went in to breakfast. "I start at eleven today, but I have to be in a bit early to learn the cash register," I told Mom.
Lou was in his office having a meeting when I arrived at the Take-Away. Carla, who had given me the basics of the csah register at the end of my shift yesterday, showed me how to count the money at the end of the day, even though I would not normally be working till closing time.
At about three o'clock, Lou called me into his office. He was wearing a red shirt and black slacks, similar to his staff's uniform. "Look," he said to me, "do you see what I'm wearing?"
"Yes," I said.
"Are you dressed as I am?"
"No, I'm wearing what you gave me."
"I give up," he said. "How many hours have you worked today?"
"Four, I guess," I said.
"You guess? All right, I'll pay you for five. This isn't working out. You're fired."
"Why?"
"Because you refuse to wear the uniform, which is a job requirement."
"I'm wearing what you gave me."
Lou was exasperated. "Here's your check. Turn in your shirt and slacks tomorrow." Before he could hand me the check, there was a knock at the door.
"Enter," Lou said. It was Carla. She was dressed as I was—in a red shirt and dark pleated skirt. Lou didn't seem to notice.
"We have a problem with a customer. She says that after she came in here, her jeans turned into a denim skirt while she was in line. She's very upset. Should I call the police?"
"Let me handle it," said Lou. He probably figured it was one of the elderly homeless people who sometimes wandered in and scared away paying customers.
The woman, however, was in her early thirties with three small children. "Ma'am, may I help you?" he asked her.
She started crying and talking about how she thought she was losing her mind, she was divorced and a bunch of other stuff.
"Give her a Number One Combo on the house. Give the kids a Number Three." He looked at Carla. "Why are you out of uniform?"
"I'm wearing what you gave me," she said.
Lou fumed again. "Look—"
I said, "You all still have customers watching—and Lou, your slip's hanging out. And it will be till you hire me back."
That's how—in a nutshell—I became assistant afternoon shift manager at Lucille's Take-Away.