The Pink Card.

In the weeks before college I would lay awake, heartbeat racing as I formulated a wish list of plans to enable the full, unbridled exploration of my neophyte Charla-self. Morris had helped me along with my first teetering steps to proper tv sisterhood and for that I was eternally grateful. It was he who had explained that there was an unseen demi-monde of like-minded deviants around me and like me they weren't monsters but just individuals. Thus under his tutelage I blossomed, sadly my free time was limited, family and school schedules had to be balanced. Wednesdays and especially friday evenings presented me with the best opportunity for sessions with Morris. After school activities could be curtailed or even skipped, a fib about nights out with friends could be fabricated leaving me the luxury of whole evenings for Morris to weave his magic on me. Early on Morris had devised a clever code using the local advert cards that hung in the shop window. He had reserved the top left slot for a bright pink card, this was 'our' card...one side was blank meaning 'no dice'.....on the other he had printed MissC in black felt tip pen, this meant 'all clear'. Simple, anonymous, clear.....brilliant but more importantly reading that garrish pink signal sent a thrill of excitement through my breast. Whether intentionally or not, Morris was slowly but surely shifting my rather negative self perception of my dressing and deviance away from regarding it as merely a masturbation prop towards it being an exciting, exotic part of my nature to be explored, celebrated and exploited.


As the weeks rolled along and my friday nights became regularly devoted to answering the call of 'The Pink Card'. Morris invested more of his time grooming 'his Charlotta' so by the time July and school holidays arrived I was free to cycle over more frequently. Morris was quietly excited by the increase in free time and was relishing the task of transforming me in to a young Charla. I was a project that he had been waiting for, a blank femme canvas. Whilst I was still figuring out what this strange attraction to dressing really meant to me, he was persuading and then soothing me after the shock of my first waxing session, busily setting aside suitable outfits, staying late and letting me in for dressing and fabulous make up sessions which subtly shaped my eyebrows so they would take eye shadow but remain unnoticed by parents. It was due to his minor miracles that any hint of 'queerness' to my normal image was avoided, which in the dog days of the 70's was pretty vital to one's well being!


Morris's course of femme training whilst initially altruistic, ultimately of course became tinged with a more selfish motive as he began to enjoy his 'all access' rights to me. In retrospect Morris' sexual demands were really quite modest, evening sessions would comprise of; make up and hair hints or modelling new outfits for his approval to the atmospheric 78's on an ancient gramophone; Benny Goodman, Duke Ellington, Harry James et als....

....not to my youthful taste back then but those haunting tunes were the absolutely the perfect soundscape for Charla's lessons. The smokey, seamy sounds evocative of seedy New York night clubs really helped set the mood for me learn that new and strange lexicon of 'Femme' body language; coquettish, flirtatious, sultry. Looks and movements were practiced, with my Don, Morris looking critically on then having me perch on his knee whilst he kissed and fondled me, not seeing myself at all gay but just acting out my chosen feminine role as perfectly as I could. Initially I dreaded Morris's advances but it seemed a fair trade off to the unique and fulfilling gift of his time and kinky energy and indeed it took many more years until I could admit to myself the unique sexual satisfaction I derived from a gentleman's sexual attentions.


As that summer drew to an end maybe Morris sensed I was ready to move on, if not emotionally then certainly geographically. Our sessions began tailing off and when I did model for him there was no knee perching only admissions that he felt guilty, 'Charlotta, you should be out there having fun - goodness knows there are plenty in the area who I know would love to meet you'. Maybe poor Morris felt he should be letting others in on his little secret girlie. Up until then my only outside world adventure had been the night time faltering steps to the underground toilets on the promenade in my laughably ersatz garb, hardly the most glamorous venue.  As I looked at myself in the mirror; little black dress, simple black court shoes and neat brunette bob - it did feel a little like Charla was all dressed up and nowhere to go, the prospect tickled my girlie fancy. Morris decided that I should attend a fancy dress party, the venue a rather sleazy club called 'The Oasis'. The only nightclub on the coast that held gentleman's evenings of striptease, local gossip about scandalous going's on in the car park after the g-strings had been flung off was rife! 


Real life and fantasy life don't always interlock and much to Morris's disgust, it simply wasn't possible for me to innocently engineer a complete night away from the family home, to enable me to sally forth 'en femme'. That damp squib ended up being the rather unsatisfactory end to our collaboration as thereafter he seemed to lose interest in my development. Too immature to process the complex emotional data I rather cruelly ignored Morris and now suddenly I was leaving. I swung by the shop to try to repair the damage but significantly our pink card was missing from the top left hand slot and Morris was nowhere to be seen.