I want to tell you about a boy who lived in my neighborhood when I was growing up. Brandon K. was the terror of our neighborhood.
Although he was 12, Brandon was a little small for his age. He looked several years younger. But despite his small stature, Brandon was a terror. Every kid in the neighborhood was afraid of him. His dark green eyes and shoulder-length hair only added to his menacing presence.
Brandon had beaten me up on several occassions, taken my lunch money, stolen my bike and hidden it somewhere, and generally, made my life miserable.
Girls, especially those younger than he was, suffered far worse tortures.
Brandon was infamous for lifting a girl¢‚¬„¢s skirt up and flashing everyone a sight of the horrified girl¢‚¬„¢s underpants. He would pull pigtails until the poor girl ran away in tears. He ripped the heads off of dolls and set teddy bears on fire.
He always wore heavy work boots and torn jeans. His long hair looked greasy and smelled bad. We called him “Stinky Brandon”-just not to his face.
Brandon lived in a nive house and his parents seemed very pleasant. No one really knows why he was so hateful and mean. Or why he was such a bully.
That¢‚¬„¢s what life was like for Brandon. He was the king of the neighborhood. Doing whatever he wanted. And no one seemed able to do anything about him.
That¢‚¬„¢s what my life was like when I was 11.
Then I got an invitation to Brandon¢‚¬„¢s 13th birthday party.
It was so strange to receive an invitation from Brandon¢‚¬„¢s mom. And what was stranger still was that all of the kids in the neighborhood got one! We had never been invited to any of Brandon¢‚¬„¢s birthday parties.
But here it was. A pink and white perfumed invitation with pretty pink script lettering. There was also a picture of a little girl blowing out candles of a fairy princess cake.
“What a strange invitation for a boy¢‚¬„¢s party,” I remembered thinking.
Well, my mother told me I had to go. Strange or not.
That was strange, but she insisted that it was very important that I go. She said she would even get the present. When I told her not get anything too nice, she told me not to worry. She promised she would get something nice and sweet.
So on the day of the party I prepared to go to the house down the street and wish the meanest kid in the whole wide world a happy birthday. I pulled my suit out my closet and picked one of my two clip-on ties. I hated my suit, but what else were you supposed to wear to a party?
My mother then informed that because of some of the games we were going to be playing at the party, casual attire was a better choice.
So I dressed in jeans and a t-shirt and sneakers and walked with my mother the two blocks to Brandon¢‚¬„¢s house. I saw other kids with their moms. We were all dressed in play clothes and had that same expression on our face.
We couldn¢‚¬„¢t believe we were about to step foot inside Brandon¢‚¬„¢s house.
The walkway to the house was decorated with pink and white balloons. As we walked through the house we heard shouting coming from upstairs. It sounded like Brandon was fighting with his dad. Brandon¢‚¬„¢s voice sounded strange.
His mother, a very nice lady, led us to the patio where a big table was set up. Everything was decorated in pink and white and looked really girly. I was a little puzzled.
I couldn¢‚¬„¢t believe Brandon would want such sissy stuff for his birthday.
Brandon¢‚¬„¢s mom told us to take our places.
My mom and the other ladies sat in lawn chairs near the table. There was the usual giggles and childish chatter from all of but you could have heard a pin drop when Brandon¢‚¬„¢s mother walked onto the patio holding her son¢‚¬„¢s hands.
It took me a second to realize that it was indeed Brandon.
Because at first, I thought his mother was leading a little girl onto the patio. A pretty little girl who was holding her hand tightly.
When I looked into those teay green eyes, though, I knew exactly who it was.
It was Brandon the Bully. The Terror. And he was dressed like a little girl. I couldn¢‚¬„¢t believe it! Neither could anybody else!
Brandon looked no older than a girl of 9 or 10.
It didn¢‚¬„¢t help that he was holding a doll baby in his right hand. The doll baby looked like he did. He looked like the doll.
His usually greasy brown hair had been dyed an auburn color and had been curled into tiny little sausage curls. He looked like a brunette Shirley Temple! And there was even a large pink bow on the top of his head!
He was wearing a light touch of makeup, including lipstick and eyeshadow. His lashes looked longer and his green eyes seemed brighter.
His pink lips were in a trembling pout.
Brandon was wearing a little girl¢‚¬„¢s party dress. It was pink and white and had a lacy pinnafore. He was wearing a stiff petticoat underneath it and from under the stiff layers you could see just a hint of his ruffled party panties.
Brandon the Bully was wearing sissy panties!!
He was standing straight and tall with his knees together and his hands at his side. He feet were together and he was wearing little anklets and shiny black Maryjanes.
He looked so childish. He looked so little girlish. He looked smaller and no where near as horrible or threatening as he had always appeared.
It was hard to believe that this was the terror who had been stealing my lunch money and leaving me with bruises.
Brandon¢‚¬„¢s mother cleared her throat sternly and he stepped forward.
Taking his party dress in his hands, Brandon performed a perfect curtsey. Then in a faint whisper he lisped, “Thank you tho much for coming to my birthday party. It is weally nice to thee all of you.”
Some of the boys laughed. All of the girls were giggling.
Brandon looked like he wanted to die.
Then his mother said, “Why don¢‚¬„¢t you introduce your new doll baby to everyone, sweetie.”
Brandon looked up at her and then back at us.
Again it was that sweet little lisp.
“This is my new dowwie. Her name ith Thuthie. And the ith wearing a pwetty wittle dwess wike me.”
The children around me erupted into laughter.
Brandon¢‚¬„¢s bottom lip began to tremble.
I had never seen him so defenseless. So weak.
His mother led him to the head of the table and when he walked, despite the small steps he was taking, I saw his little ruffled panties. There were several rows of pink ruffles and bows across the seat.
Brandon¢‚¬„¢s mother reminded him to smooth out his dress before he sat down and he even hooked his feet together under his chair.
We drank punch and snacked on finger sandwiches and stared at the little sissy girl at the head of the table. We were all trying to figure out what had happened. How did Brandon¢‚¬„¢s mother turn him into a girl?
We hadn¢‚¬„¢t seen him for two weeks.
Someone had said that he had gone to summer camp.
Someone else said that he was in juvenile detention.
As it turned out, Brandon had been undergoing little girl lessons, and from the look of things, he had studied very hard.
Brandon¢‚¬„¢s mother tied a baby¢‚¬„¢s bib around his neck so that he wouldn¢‚¬„¢t ruin his pretty dress. It seemed that his humiliation would never end.
While we enjoyed our cake, Brandon¢‚¬„¢s mother gave my mother and the other ladies a tour of Brandon¢‚¬„¢s new bedroom. She later told me that it was very pretty and that any little girl would have wanted a room just like it.
She told me that it was perfect for a girl of 5. There was a big canopy bed, white princess-style furniture, a pink rug, bookshelves filled with books, dolls and stuffed animals.
And a closet full of the sweetest little girl clothes you had ever seen! It seemed Brandon might never wear boy clothes again!
Outside we began to give the birthday girl his presents. I had no idea what my mother had bought. Not one of us could contain our laughter or taunts as Brandon opened present after present.
All in all, he received a new doll that wet when you fed her a bottle, some cute little lady bug earings, some Babysitter Club books, a new babydoll nightgown with matching panties, and my gift, a girl¢‚¬„¢s diary.
Brandon thanked us all for our thoughtful gifts in his lisping voice.
Some of the girls, realizing that the beast had been tamed by his new curls, makeup, and lacy little socks, began to tease him. They lifted his dress up and we all saw his sissy panties.
They pulled his curlers until he cried and started to sob “Thtop! Thtop it!”
But we had all suffered at the hands of this former bully and we wanted some payback. Me and one of the other boys pulled Brandon¢‚¬„¢s dress way over his head and left him standing there nervously dancing on the patio begging for us to stop while he tried to cover his sissy panties.
We played our games until it was time for cake.
Brandon sat sulking at the head of the table, sucking the tip of his thumb between his pink lips.
When the cake came out, we all “ooed” and “aahed,”
The cake was a pink and white confection. The words “Happy Birthday, Princess” were written in pink icy.
Brandon blew out his candles after making his wish.
One of the girls shouted, “I bet he wished for some more pretty panties!”
I wonder if he did.
All I know is that from that day on, Brandon was never the same. We would see him now and then in the front yard with his mother. Sometimes they were planting flowers in the garden. Sometimes they were just out for a walk around the neighborhood. Brandon, who his mother still called “Princess” would hold her hand tight and stick close to her. He really was like a 5 year old. And if anyone walked up to them, he would hide behind his mother¢‚¬„¢s skirts.
Brandon was always dressed in little girl clothes and didn¢‚¬„¢t look anywhere near his real age. He was always sucking his thumb and when he spoke, it was always in a quiet little lisp.
He always had a big bow in his hair, which had gotten even longer, and his baby doll in his hands or in his little doll carriage.
His dresses were always short enough so that you could see his panties.
I heard from my mother, who had heard from a neighbor, that she had seen diapers hanging on the clothesline in the backyard. It seems Brandon had begun wetting the bed and had to wear diapers and baby pants under his nightgowns.
Sometimes when we rode by on our bikes we would shout “Sissy Baby!” or “Diaper Girl!.”
That got old though, and in time we forgot all about that mean old bully who used to terrorize us. We would even wave ¢‚¬Ëhi” to that cute little girl who was living in his house.
She would simply smile at us shyly, take her thumb out of her mouth, and say, “Hewwo. Would you wike to pway with me?”
Sometimes we did but she only liked playing with her dolls or having tea parties.