When had he ever read that?Finally, he finished. Even then, it took him almost another fifteen minutes to get out of the house. Mom went to the door to give him a kiss goodbye, as was her habit. I stood up and waited for her to come, and she did, as soon as she closed the door behind Dad."You can clean up those dishes," she snapped as she passed through the doorway into the kitchen. Sitting down in Dad's spot, Mom picked up the main section of the paper and lifted her cup to her lips. I stared in shock as she sipped her coffee but Mom totally ignored me. Okay, fine. I'll do the fucking dishes!.I gathered all the dishes, rinsed them, struggling not to bang them around, and put the food away. I'll even go one farther, I thought. I washed the dishes and rinsed out the sink."Dry them," Mom barked, "and pour me some more coffee."That really ticked me off, more by the tone than the command, but I poured her coffee anyway, motivated by the black bra beneath her blouse. The hell with it. I. Most of the year I dressed only for my mirror and my own delight. But now and then I needed to feel ratified in the eyes of others, confirmed in my femininity by their vision of me. I spent as much time as I could in my special feminine room feeling dainty, pretty, and affectionate in ways men never dare. I loved the feel of nylon and silk on my thighs, and I appreciated my own good taste when choosing the textures, colors, designs, and styles of the ensembles I wore. I loved seeing a flash of bright red on my fingertips, and glimpses of myself reflected in the mirror as no way masculine, rather distinctly ladylike, even coquettish, desirable. I felt sweetly serene at such moments. I felt nice. A girl should always feel nice. Being called "Ma'am" by some sales clerk felt very nice indeed! But that was possible only when I was out of town. At home we both feared discovery. Dressing up had felt terrifyingly dangerous if also delightful ever since my early adolescence. From.
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