So much naughtiness among my nephews and nieces this week. What is a busy auntie to do?
Even young Gerald, usually so devoted, forgot to bring his swimming costume over when he and my nieces were going to play in the garden, and I was forced to have him slip into one of my daughter’s swimming costumes.
It was a tight squeeze, but he managed to get himself suitably arranged. Goodness, the things I am asked to do! Is there no lengths to which I will not go for my nephews?
I’ve decided they should all have uniforms to suitably remind themselves to be prepared in future. What do you think? A good idea?
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With Sebastian strutting around in his cycling shorts, and Auntie Kittie coming over to offer me some of her specially imported organic coconut sunblock, anyone would think that going outside in this glorious weather is some sort of sin. However, it is important to look after ourselves in this extraordinary heat.
It is more important than ever to moisturize – personally I like a nice aloe based moisturizer – and also to drink plenty of water. Adding to this a good quality sunblock is a wonderful idea. I have started working early in the day and having a break by the time the day is hot, then going back to my endless labours in the early evening when the day is cooler. It’s a slightly different regime, but one I learned while living in the hottest parts of Africa. There is no point getting over heated and having headaches and the misery of sunstroke.
This stunning weather does give us the opportunity to wear some suitable clothes that are perfect for the twenty-first century crossdresser. Swimshorts, a tee shirt and a pair of sandals. Add lipstick and a little eye makeup and you’re there. You may not quite be Daisy Duke, but that is all a bit 1970’s anyway. I’m not sure Daisy would quite work today, sliding across the bonnet of an electric vehicle and roaring off down a country road listening to Taylor Swift. Nor can I see Sheriff Roscoe taking gender sensitivity training and a course in critical race theory.
I was discussing this with Sylvester this very morning. I explained how today we are all more ‘woke’.
“It’s all those energy drinks,” he replied.
“What?” I answered feeling like one of us was losing their grip.
“Oh, no,” I said. “We’re more ‘woke’, not more ‘awake’. Besides I don’t even touch those things. They’re bad for you.”
“I don’t get all this ‘woke’ stuff,” grumbled Sylvester.
“As far as I can make out, it means we’re more aware of racial issues. And gender ones. And age ones. And some other things.”
“You mean we’re more considerate?”
“I guess,” I replied.
“That reminds me, there was something I wanted to talk to you about,” went on Sylvester.
“Go ahead,” I replied, ever my helpful self.
“Have you ever been hit on by someone in authority? I mean, I know you’re…”
“Yes,” I replied expectantly.
“You’re not like some other people,” said Sylvester awkwardly.
“You mean I have tits, wear lipstick and have a dick? Yes. I am slightly different, but that’s no one’s business but my own,” I replied enjoying Sylvester’s discomfort.
“Well, I know this is a difficult subject, but…” continued Sylvester squirming.
“Sylvester, this is me. You can talk to me about anything.”
“I wondered if you’d ever been hit on by anyone who was your boss, or something like that.”
I must admit I was intrigued by Sylvester’s line of questioning.
“Well, there’s been one or two incidents. I’m pretty abrasive with people that I get a confrontational vibe from, though.”
“It’s just my brothers teenage daughter got hit on by her boss at the store she works at,” I wondered what you thought about it.
I was a little surprised, mostly that any employer could be so stupid.
“It’s a horrible fact, and one that many men don’t understand, but as I understand it many women do get unwanted attention at work. We sort of assume it doesn’t happen, but it does. Actually, it happens all the time. Now, having said that, most young women do learn to deal with it. I know it’s wrong that it would be that way, but many women just deal with it. However, my best advice is to get her a good lawyer, and then have her choose a nice Caribbean island to go and visit with the settlement that is likely to follow.”
“I was shocked,” said Sylvester. “It was all so ‘low level’.”
“What do you mean,” I asked.
“Well, he just approached her and asked if she’d go for a drink,” said Sylvester.
“Unfortunately that’s often the way these things do look. Somewhat harmless and low key. But then, when it’s time for her review she’ll find that the colleague that went out for that drink does a little better than she did. It’s horrible, and it’s insidious,” I said and paused. “It’s a weird thing. It’s easy to see abuse when it’s obvious. When it’s subtle it’s more difficult. And you know what? As a person who has lived much of their life ‘in trousers’ it has never happened to me, at least not as a teenager. So I can never say I’ve lived through that kind of subtle abuse.”
“But that’s good, isn’t it?” countered Sylvester.
“Well, I’m glad I’ve not been bullied like that, however subtle it may have been. But to be honest, I can’t say I’ve lived the ‘female life’ in that sense. I think this is a difficult area for many people who identify as female. The fact is I’ve been fortunate enough to have many advantages of being male. Having said that, it didn’t feel that way when I got a beating or two for being too girly for some people. My journey has different struggles. But I sympathise and I see how unfair it is on young women.”
“And this happens a lot?”
“It happens all the time, which is why we have to be so supportive of young women who are taken advantage of. I’m fortunate enough to work at an agency where even a hint of such behaviour would have the senior person fired and escorted out of the building before their feet touched the ground. People who act like that are a liability to the company, as well as being bullies.”
“Well, it doesn’t happen in my business,” said Sylvester a little defensively.
“I should hope not,” I replied. It’s worth noting that Sylvester runs a workshop servicing vehicles and has a fairly mixed group of employees.
“And it never happened to you?” he continued.
“Oh gosh, no,” I sighed. “I thought it might when I was at summer camp once, but the camp counsellor found out I was trans and then wasn’t interested.”
“Huh,” said Sylvester with a puzzled look on his face. “I’m not quite sure what to make of that.”
“Yes,” I replied. “That’s what he said.”
Stay hydrated and enjoy the sun, and remember, it’s not just the climate that’s changing.
I’ve been sorting a few things out in my house for summer, and as I have no doubt you can imagine in this heat I’ve found a little help from my nephews helps a great deal. Moving some of the furniture to give my place a lighter and more spacious feel has made it so much nicer in the heat.
In my living room is my husbands old sea chest, one of my last mementos of the dear man. He disappeared in the south seas many years ago, though I don’t really like to talk about it. Needless to say, as a widow I do like to keep some of his things about the place, even if it has been 25 years since he went beyond his last horizon. I used to put a few photographs of him and his shipmates on it all arranged nicely in their frames, but they’re all packed away now.
“Goodness, Auntie,” said my nephew Gerald. “You really do have a big chest,” trying to move it.
“Ah, yes,” I replied. “And not so very long ago it was covered in seamen.”
As my little nephew Gerald was helping me with a few personal tasks the other day I asked myself, I wonder how my favorite little sissy is doing? How are you getting along, ? I’m sure you’d just love to be in his place. Why just this afternoon he was helping me.
“That’s it, Gerald, stir it round and round the bowl. Faster. Here let me help you,” and to be extra helpful I stood behind him, my breasts against his shoulders as I reached around and vigorously stirred the cake mix. I really do work up a little sweat as I work away at it! It’s just as well I have a strong right arm.
Poor little Gerald, he’s quite overcome!
“Oh no!” I said as I lifted the bowl and placed it on the counter. “Some of the cake mix has dripped from the spoon right between my… my… chest.”
“Can I lick it,” asked little Gerald.
“Gerald!” I exclaimed. “Oh, you mean the spoon! Of course.”
After such a busy afternoon in the kitchen I think I’d better go and get a towel to clean up. After all, I want little Gerald to look forward to coming again and again and learning to help in the kitchen.
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Auntie always wants her sissies to look their best. This week she’s suggesting a great new pair of panties for her Good Gurls.
When Auntie is not working diligently in her role as the Governor of a busy boarding school she is always happy to take care of her nieces and nephews. If you’re not already following her be sure to check out her page.
I am going to share a little secret with you. I
just love to dress my nephews. Actually, anyone for that matter. I know it’s a
little shocking, but that’s just the kind of girl I am.
The first time I do so is usually for punishment of some sort. Perhaps a transgression,
either real or imagines, but I have the excuse. I usually do something like
tell them that to learn respect they must wear something of my daughters – perhaps
these lovely pink panties that I have conveniently to hand. An hour or so of
that will give them the chance to consider their misdemeanors properly.
I hand them some silk lacy panties from a draw of
her things which I’ve kept since she moved out to go to university. They take
them, looking nervous, and then always look at me with those big eyes of the
totally subservient. I’ve done this many times though. They will find no pity there. I know precisely
what I am doing.
They take them, usually a little unsure, and then one of two things happen. Either they take them and run upstairs and put them on or they drop their pants and slip out of their underwear and slide them on.
I will then generally tell them to pull up their
pants and that I will let them know when they can change back. Of course, I
have a terrible memory and promptly forget. Or so they think.
The next time I decide to do this I will usually
insist they wear tights as well. I have several pairs pink and white tights,
they look very girly. I do so love the way they look. I can usually tell that
my nephews are a little excited by the prospect.
The second time I rarely go very much further, preferring
the poor little scamps to get used to it. And they do. I have sent the little monsters to my
daughters room as a punishment before, only to surprise them after a few
minutes and find them trying on her skirts or a blouse.
By the third time it’s usually evident that they’re
not only excited by the prospect, but secretly craving it. That’s usually when
I insist on calling them by a nice feminine name. Gerald becomes Geraldine, or Jeanie.
Phillip becomes Phillipa or Pippa. I know they love that. The blush on their
cheek tells me so.
I do wonder what these little seedlings will grow to be. I do know that they will bring great pleasure to their friends, though. And in the end, isn’t that what it’s all about?
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I’ve popped over to Fiona’s place to give her my diary entry. As luck would have it she’s having a little soiree and the liquor cabinet is unusually accessible. I’ve just dropped in to give Fiona this message.
So, as you may have guessed I am back from visiting St. Bernedette’s School For Gurls. You know, I do love to travel to South Africa, and life in the Natal foothills is really quite lovely. It’s a little like going back in time.
The post is still delivered by the nice young postman, and I often ride into the nearby town of Jabulani on horseback, along with Jack the handyman at the school. Jabulani is about five miles from the school, and a lovely ride in the Natal morning sunshine. The school has a small stable of a dozen horses. Every morning Jack and I would get some exercise taking one or two of the gurls and riding to town to bring back the fresh milk.
Those sultry mornings, with a little mist in the distance, climbing on the back of a well trained pony, and setting out across the veldt, it was quite beautiful. The gurls laughing and chasing along with me, Little Michaela, her ginger hair flowing behind her as we fly across the ground in the morning sun. Quite serene. And Jack the handyman trying to keep pace. He’s a little older, of course and we have to wait for him from time to time.
Once in the nearby village we’d put a few cartons of milk in our packs from the store, and then race back to the school stables. And of course finally we’d help Jack off his horse.
It all seems a million miles away from the cooler weather I have come back to. And Canada is really much more modern and genteel. Things in South Africa seem so much more, I suppose the word is ‘primal’. Everything is more literal and immediate. So, when one of the maids came to me and said they didn’t know what to do about the schools pet dog, ‘Cesar’ chasing after the postman every morning I pointed out that the best way to deal with that would obviously be to neuter him.
Well, as I explained to the poor man later, I had been referring to the dog when I said, ‘neuter him’. These things happen though. Best to move forward and not get bogged down in the details, though I do have some sympathy for the poor fellow.
How lovely it is to be back, though. My nieces and nephews have offered to help me get my Christmas tree up, and I’m looking forward to standing on a chair as my nephew Gerald looks up at me as I place a fairy on the top of the Christmas tree. How well dressed this tree really is. I suppose I should now turn my attentions to young Gerald.
How very kind he is to help me get it up. I’m sure, given the opportunity, you’d do the same.
But now I have to give this account to Max, who is going to post it online for me. He’s so much better at technology than I am. I shall go and sit on his knee and simper, it usually works with him, the little puppy! I’ll just stop off and refill my coffee cup with Bailey’s.
How nice it is to be back in South Africa. I am visiting St. Bernadette’s School For Gurls here, where I serve as a school governor. I am also taking the opportunity to help out in the school, as a lot of the staff have been effected by Covid.
I do hope this is finding you well. If you’re being good for your auntie you’ll be taking a few precautions, wearing a mask as well as a nice pair of frilly panties. You know I like all my nephews to be well presented. If you’ve not bought any yet, perhaps you should check out my page of goodies. Have a look and see if there’s something suitable for you there. I think you’d look just delicious being a good gurl for me!
All the pupils here are out playing sports in the spring sunshine today. I do love it when they are out playing fields, and I get out my buns to give them all a treat between games. It’s so good to see them all playing together. I watched one of our most promising pupils, Amanda, beating off the competition to win the long jump. What a sight.
I do my best to keep all the scores tallied.
“Oh, auntie! You’re so good, always getting them down for us,” said Amanda just today, with a little snigger. I can’t think what she found so funny.
As summer gently shimmys toward the exit door, and fall gets in the queue to get into the club of the passing year, we’re slowly seeing the weather change. Even Auntie Kittie has started wearing a sweater now and then, a matter of considerable relief to Max, who types up her material.
“Max is such a dear,” she said the other day. “I’m so grateful he’s so good at putting it in. He’s so thorough.” and then added as an after thought,”… and so quick.”
The poor 20 year old lamb goes the color of a beetroot when he’s embarrassed, and Auntie Kittie will say such things in front of Sylvester and Mistress Meg. And it was Sylvester and Meg who were sitting at my kitchen table this very morning. Sylvester was telling us how in these troubled times we should all be finding ways to lift our spirits. Instead of worrying about the Corona Virus we should be reaching deeply within ourselves and fostering our creativity. Meg was a little skeptical.
I’ve been doing that very thing myself. I’ve been doing a little embroidery, making some of my jeans look a little more feminine by adding a few little designs. It’s really very simple and gives even the most masculine of trousers a nice feminine touch. If you’d like to change your favorite dungarees from the farm yard, or even the ones you wear when cleaning out the slag from the iron foundry this will do just the trick. Even your most stylish denim pants can be personalised and uplifted – and we could all use a personalised uplifting of our denim clad butts, I’m sure you’ll agree.
I leaned over the kitchen table and turned to Sylvester and said, “What do you think of this?”
Sylvester looked at my jeans as I did so, and said, “That’s really very impressive. I think I should enter you.”
“Sylvester, I…” but before I could speak he went on, as Meg looked on, arms folded and unimpressed.
“I should enter you in the embroidery competition. It’s part of the end of summer cultural fair at the recreation center.”
“Oh, really I don’t think so,” I said. “Most of the people entering are really rather older than I am. They’re quite a conservative lot. I’m really not sure what they’d make of me. I can imagine it would be like that poor South African athlete who they didn’t believe was a woman.”
Sylvester looked a little doubtful. “No, I don’t think it would be like that.”
Anyway that’s what I’m doing. Sylvester tells me he’s working on a book. The Complete Idiot’s Guide To Being A Complete Idiot. A catchy title.
“Are you writing it or reading it?” muttered Meg, ever the acerbic wit.
It turns out that half the people in this competition I’m now entered in are young arts students. I thought they’d all be doddery old buffers like Auntie Kittie’s father, who’s staying with her rather than going into a care home. These days that seems a rather good idea. The old fellow is about 150 years old and sits smiling looking into the far horizon. He seems a kindly old fellow, though the dementia is quite complete and he has little idea of what’s going on. He seems cheerful, though.
I said to Auntie Kittie, the other day when I was round there, “He looks like he’s fondly remembering the things he used to do when he was a young man.”
She frowned and agreed.
“Yes, you’re probably right. He’s remembering flying aeroplanes and bombing Germany. He’s always been a belligerent old bugger.”
I suppose we all have our own journeys.
Have a safe, socially distanced week. The Republican convention should provide a few laughs this week… urgh, I can hardly wait.
“But what is it, Fiona,” she said down the phone this
morning. “Why don’t I come over and you can explain it to me? I keep hearing
about it on the wireless.”
Yes, that’s actually what she said, ‘the wireless’. I told
her not to worry, but to listen to her gramophone rather than the news.
That really does sort of miss the point. I have to say that
for each person failing to do use social distancing we can expect this to last
just a little longer. So, there is a bit of an incentive to get it right. Also,
if you have an elderly parent, and you want there to be a respirator for them
should they get this thing, well, there’s your incentive right there. It works
and reduces the loading on the healthcare system.
Auntie Kittie is a conundrum. While baffled by even the technology to operate a doorbell, she is the only person in my regular circle who understands how to use a Norwegian wine bottle opener I have. It’s an electric device, ergonomically designed and as far as I can make out, entirely unusable. You could die of thirst in a desert with this thing it’s so complicated, and yet she figured it out and had a bottle opened and poured before I’d finished explaining to her that no one knew how to use it.
For those of you who regularly do follow the events here in
Huckleberry Close, you might already have guessed that Sylvester actually does
have a hazmat suit. I sent him over earlier to get Auntie Kitties phone and
bring it back here so Max could install Whatsapp on it. That didn’t go so well.
I had no idea a phone this old could even connect to a wireless network.
Frankly I should be grateful it didn’t have a wire and a rotary dial.
Eventually Max called her and asked if she had a tablet, to
which she replied she would look in the medicine cabinet and I think the phone
got cut off after that.
Some of my neighbours are looking concerned seeing Sylvester
walking up and down Huckleberry close in a hazmat suit. I think I’d better put
the kettle on and make tea. It’s going to be a trying day.
Now, I’m not going to give you medical advice or any more COVID19 news. There’s other sources for that. I would recommend middle of the road reporting such as Apnews.com, BBC , Axios and CBC . These are actual news sites and not entertainment sites. If you believe anything you see on Fox News you pretty well deserve everything you get, I’m sorry to say. That might be a case of Darwinian evolution in practice. All I can say is, don’t be a covidiot.
What I can suggest is that you occupy your time with Clothes Maketh The Man, or if you want something interactive our Whatsapp Group is having a wonderful time. This week we’ve have Toenail Tuesday lined up for our members of Whatsapp tomorrow. There’s always discussions about music, and cooking, whether or not Skye from Paw Patrol is hotter than Dr. Smith (in the new Lost In Space) and of course no end of crossdressing chat. You are never going to be bored if you join us on Whatsapp. It’s different every day.
I am often online at present on the website, and in the Whatsapp Group so feel free to stop by and say hi.
I am so happy to have my niece staying with me over reading
break from the University. Her parents have taken off for a few weeks to the
sun, and I have been positively delighted to have her come and visit for a few
Perhaps you can imagine, she appeared on my doorstep like a lost waif, with hardly any clothes and she’s here for a week. Naturally, the first thing I did was take her off for a shopping expedition to try and get her looking like a woman, rather than a car accident. Really, I just don’t understand this whole ‘ripped jeans’ thing. Far better that she learn to wear something more enticing.
These warm spring evenings are a delight in Montreal. We’re seeing tourists arrive, and the city sheds the cold clothes of the winter and everyone starts to look fresh and excited about the onset of the warm weather.
On evenings like this it’s not unusual for me to pop over and see Fiona, just as I did yesterday evening. I did so to find a small gathering of people in her back garden all enjoying a few drinks and at Fiona’s invitation I joined the friendly party.
“If I were you, Max,” I said, “I would slide my shaft in here…”
I’d sat down at the garden table where a few of us were playing scrabble. Max looked across the table at me and blushed. I can’t think why.