FIRST ENCOUNTERS
GRABBING THE RING!
WHIMSICAL CONTINUATION TO "RUSS' RUSTLING CLOSET"
Written by Russ!
I have to admit that when I opened the Update page and viewed my story, that familiar tingle went down my spine and my heart skipped a beat or two. That First Encounter with 50's petticoats, lingerie and that crunchy, poufy dress was magical and yes, quaint, but it was even more wonderful because that house was a warm and safe refuge from the outside world. I have often thought about that first time over the past 29 years and while I was at my computer today, I couldn't help but wonder what might have happened if my aunt reacted somewhat differently to her discovery of me dressed a la Grace Kelly in that upstairs room. Stepping back in time, this is what I might suggest:
As my aunt wlked down the hall towards her room, I twirled, curtseyed, tried a little cancan, and practiced sitting on several different chairs; every time I sat down, I became engulfed by the overflowing taffeta skirt of the dress. Suddenly and quietly, my aunt reappeared at the door. "Yes, you will need a wig, as well as a few other things if we're going to pass you off to the bridge girls this afternoon," she stated matter-of-factly, and then reached out and motioned me to follow her back to her room. When I entered her room, I couldn't help but notice all of the cosmetics and assorted boxes spread over the top of her makeup vanity on the far side of it. Her eyes met mine, and, with a look of mischief and merriment, told me, "You were apparently having so much fun in that party dress, I thought we might have a little fun this afternoon. Your brother and uncle won't return until after dinner this evening and the bridge club is meeting here at one o'clock."
It was now 10:45. She continued, "Seeing you in that dress of your great aunt's stirred some memories of dance pavillions on Saturday nights, a time when dressing up itself was an occasion; I made your uncle wait!" I was now even more confused and tried to utter a question. but she again interrupted me, "If you'd rather not, then I suppose I will have to write your mom and dad and express some concerns about your behaviour this morning." However, she couldn't maintain the stern look and crumpled brow and broke into a broad smile. "Come on, you know I've always wanted a daughter, and I know that you don't know anyone who'll be here this afternoon," she pleaded. I remember just shrugging and nervously smiling; actually, my heart was now pounding so hard, the noise was deafening!
My aunt motioned me closer to the vanity and once again inspected me from head to toe. "There's a problem here and I just can't put my finger on it," she muttered to herself. Then she snapped at me, "If you are going to wear a longline bustier then you're going to have to put it on properly and let it work for you!" She broke into a smile and told me to unzip the side zipper. I think we fought with the dress for five minutes, slowly tugging and sliding it over my head and shoulders. "There," she exclaimed, "You must have some of the hooks and eyes misaligned, and the silly thing isn't tight enough". Together, we unzipped the garment, and then she took full control, fastening the third row of hooks and eyes, almost to the point of me experiencing respiratory failure. Then, she produced two foam bra cup liners from the top of her vanity and inserted them into the bustier. She took her time, carefully and thoughtfully repacking my teenaged woman's bustline with tissue to ensure it was slightly curvy and more importantly, natural. She could tell that I was having some difficulty and asked me to sit down, as if I could. Next, I removed the two garters on the front and she removed the two on the back. For the next 45 minutes, I patiently sat and allowed my aunt to perform a magical transformation on my face, accentuating the cheekbones I didn't know I had, and my eyes, with light plucking, false lashes, and warm, earthen tones of makeup. As I watched in the vanity mirror, I couldn't comprehend the feminine aura that seemed to be overcoming my entire being. She took extra time to prepare my lips with burgundy shades of liner and lipstick, and then reached into one of the boxes which I thought concealed a hat. "This too was your Great Aunt's," she confided in me. It was a beautiful 1950's bob-style, complete with curls and swirls. My aunt placed a tight fitting hair net over my shoulder length hair and and asked me to stand up; again I almost fainted because of the tightness of the bustier. She asked me to raise my arms, and then lowered the taffeta frock over my outstretched arms and head; another 5 minutes of squirming ensued.
Next came that beautiful blonde wig, befitting Grace, Marilyn, or Audrey, and my aunt very thoughtfully placed it and arranged it on my head. The popular television show, Queen for a Day, had not been off the air that long by 1970, and that's maybe just a little bit how I felt as my aunt meticulously combed, brushed, and sprayed the wig. Right out of the blue she said, "It will be hot in the house this afternoon so I think that you should shed that half slip. Besides, the taffeta of those crinolines will tickle your legs if you aren't wearing that slip!" I shyly hid behind an armoir and reached under the mound of feminine fabrics until I located the lacy hem of that white satiny slip. Even this was an occasion worth remembering as I slid it down over my stockings and stepped out of the the garment, just as I had seen starlets do in films. Over an hour had passed and my aunt retired downstairs to prepare the iced tea and petit fors which I would be serving her bridge opponents. I was a little overcome, to the point of feeling flushed, and wandered back to the large empty room with the boudoir mirror. I must have stood and gazed at myself for 10 minutes, unable to recognize my average, teenaged, boyish looks. Standing before me, was an attractive, young, blonde-haired woman, who now had a waist which was at least a full inch smaller than the first time she appeared before the mirror. I couldn't help but notice that my carefully reshaped bustline now appeared more natural than ever, and the outline of the vintage basque's heavily-boned panels were clearly evident through the heavy taffeta fabric of my gown. The nails, hair, radiant makeup, and the rustling dress and petticoats catapulted me into a feminine dimension which I was just beginning to understand, as well as experience for the next four hours. I was so nervous and excited that I wasn't able to eat the sandwich which my aunt had prepared for me. Instead, I continued practicing ascending and descending the stairs gracefully, sitting down without letting the petticoats show (too much), and turning and bending over.
One o'clock was suddenly upon us and, when the first knock came to the door, my aunt emerged from the stairwell wearing one of her own 1950's polished cotton dresses, complete with a medium-fullness crinoline. She smiled, walked past me, and whispered, "I didn't want you to seem too conspicuous in your pretty party dress!" As the afternoon progressed, it was clear that our ruse on the village bridge ladies was succeeding. I was introduced as a niece from the major city to the south. However, one lady was overheard several times, stating that I was extremely tall for a teenaged girl. My aunt seemed to satisfy her doubts with the explanation of my six foot, four inch father. Another woman queried to the woman next to her as I walked by with a plate of crustless sandwiches, "Is the girl wearing petticoats?" The next time I was close to this part of the parlour (yes, that's what my aunt referred to it as), I sashayed by those two ladies, grasping a handful of my taffeta dress, the pink and black petticoat plainly showing itself to their astonished eyes. The rest of the afternoon passed by uneventfully and I learned how to breath comfortably within the constraint of those two imprisoning foundation garments. I also learned how to fumble with hooks and eyes in the powder room and that petticoats do actually tickle stocking-covered legs, causing spine-tingling sensations for the wearer.
This event was unfortunately never repeated over the years which followed, and no one was any the wiser about the afternoon that my aunt and I spent on a nostalgic feminine adventure. I have often thought about visiting a transformation salon and spening the required funds to be dressed in petticoats and corsets, and madeup as some sultry 50's seductress; I may someday. Actually, the ultimate experience would be pulling off the sort of 50's prom queen illusion which Elayne Beneford seems to have mastered. Never before has one looked so feminine and natural in a swirl of whalebone, taffeta, and petticoats. My first experience in the "Rustling Closet" cannot be duplicated, perhaps for several reasons. The illusion spanned many hours and was actually very spontaneous, partially motivated by the perception of false and humourous threats; this only heightened the excitement of that first petticoat adventure. Secondly, I experienced the whole package at the hands of a loving and doting aunt, who was very meticulous about every womanly fashion detail. Together, boned foundation garments, stockings, varied petticoats, and the right dress, transcend the wearer into the total feminine experience. Thinking back, I would have loved to have worn a pair of black patent pumps, with 3 inch heels. I tried the transformation thing ten years ago, on the dare of the the wives of two close friends. They jested that my football frame would look ridiculous in a dress, and I accepted the challenge. I found the 3 inch heels at Payless, seized one of my wife's longsleeved knit dresses, black support pantyhose, a luxurious, plus-sized, black satin fullslip, and a boned all-in-one with the hook and eye closure at the crotch. It was fun and a little spine-tingling, but not to the degree of that hot June day in 1970. I did manage however, to successfully pull the wool over the eyes of one of the women who initiated the dare. She secretly admitted to a friend, that from a distance, she thought that I looked better in a sweater dress than she did!
[Chapter Two forthcoming]
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