“I ... I wanted you to do it. It was ... hot. With Mom right there. Risking getting caught. You don’t have to feel like you forced me.”“I’m ...our older sister. I’m supposed to keep you out of trouble.”“You’re only a year older.”“And three months,” I added.She gave me such a smile, her tear-stained face framed by her loose, auburn hair. It was so glossy in the living room lights, the highlights almost burning with fire as bright as my own red hair. Her hand squeezed mine.I felt a little. I adored the way they looked and smelled. I loved theirmannerisms. I loved the way they dressed - especially stockings andhigh-heeled shoes. I enjoyed their warm, caring supportiveness ratherthan the briskness of men and the boisterous bullying of most boys myown age.That first clandestine experience of dressing in womens' was repeatedhundreds of times in my childhood and adolescence. I loved stockings andlater pantyhose the most - sometimes even wearing them under my pants toschool, and at. More

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