#fathers shameful disappointment

Father always said that my mother was a bad influence for a vulnerable, developing young boy, fearing what would eventually happen when they separated.

Soon there would come to be a time when I would rarely see him. Making excuses as to not go with him to football matches when he was supposed to have custody of me for the evening, instead preferring to stay at home and dress with mother.

Father would prove to be right about mother’s influence on me. Instead of the son at one point I was going to be, as he so wished for. Rather I was developing decisively into a fairy, on the brink of outright homosexuality.

When your father gave you a beer for the first time….

…… and he found out how much of a fairy you really were!

Father, a successful airline pilot, often bemoaned that the generation of boys I was apart of, were too soft, that we would be a generation of “fairies”. While I insisted that I was going to follow in his footsteps and become a successful pilot like him, he always maintained that I was going to disappoint him.

I would come to consider myself lucky, that he would never have the opportunity to see how right he was. To experience the shame of seeing his son become an airline hostess.

I remember in my childhood, my father commenting on a character in a televised crime melodrama, with such contempt. It was a beautiful crossdressing seductress, that slept with large number of men, before being murdered by a homophobic lover. Mixed with the stigma of father’s words, was how absolutely shocking it was, that there were actually boys who didn’t “like” girls. That there were actually boys out there who liked men, and wanted to do things with men, which only girls were supposed to do.

Stepmother thought my father’s views were amusing. Away from him in secrecy, telling me how commonplace boys like this were, and that she wouldn’t be surprised at all if I grew up to be one on them. In seeing how uncomfortable such a statement made me, she attempted to provide me comfort, going on to say how fun it is being a girl. That sleeping with men is so much fun, that I would soon forget all about girls.

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My father, having expressed disappointment for a long time, that I was growing to be too “soft” under my mother’s influence. In one drunken state, I overheard him laughing at my mother’s idea that I may follow in his footsteps as a builder, then saying that I was likely coming to be more used to wearing her dresses, than I ever would his power tools.

It was devastating enough hearing him say such a thing at all, but it was compounded by the guilt and shame, in that in secrecy, I had indeed wore my mother’s dresses. That little did he know, how true his mocking remarks really were. How much of a fairy I really was.

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When father was still around in my boyhood, he often talked of how I would make him proud, becoming like him, a tough, real man, that wore the pants in all his relationships.

I often wonder what he would think of his son, if he knew that not only would I come to wear a skirt everyday for work, but that I would become married to a man, a man that wore the pants in our relationship. That every day I would long for home…. and having him inside me….

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It must have made for quite the awkward situation, the next time Greg encountered his bully!

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In my boyhood, father often talked of the “fairies”. How they supposedly, and shamefully, dressed in womens clothing, and did apparently imaginable things together. The kinds of things only men and women were supposed to do together. Being so young, I didn’t quite know what this meant, but it was still deeply disturbing.

Often I found myself, imagining these decadent clubs that they were known to go to.. Glamorously made up, in minidresses, and propped up in high heels,  where whole rooms of effeminate boys kissed and fell in love. The most shameful and troubling part of it, was how I so wished, that I was one of them!

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Farm boy to burlesque star…… and son of one very disappointed father!

Poor Greg. I imagine he probably had a whole wardrobe full of dresses.

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With father always having been so ashamed of me, it terrified me to imagine what he would think of me when I was alone with mother… the makeup, skirts, dresses and my first exposure to her erotic magazines of men in the nude.

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Mother had always loved Kylie Minogue. Where much of a normal boy’s childhood would be filled with war movies and action games, I remember countless evenings watching Kylie with mother. Singing along, our favourite part would be imitating her on our sofa, our legs in extended elegantly into the air, in matching high heels. We admired her so much, and obsessed over her glamour, it mustn’t have been any surprise the effect this had on my burgeoning sexuality. When I told mother about my dreams of performing in Kylie’s place on stage, and how the dreams always centred around the muscular men and them trying to get (naked!) in the bathtub with me, she gushed with delight. Telling me how she on occasion enjoyed the very same dream, followed in disbelief by the naughtiness of my imagination!

As always when we would talk of things which father wouldn’t approve of, mother would remind me not to tell him of the dreams.

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