During the late 70’s, at 16, I was compelled to board an hour or so by motorcycle away from home to attend High School Certificate college.  I was staying with Mrs. D, a middle aged divorcee in a nice suburb, and on one particular weekend had decided to remain in town to attend a birthday party of an economics classmate, Oriana, a second-generation Portuguese girl of 17.

As the party approach, scheduled for the mid-afternoon I happened to look at the invitation, only to notice that it was entitled an “S-party”.  In my naivety, I queried Mrs. D, who was in the lounge with her  20-yo daughter Caroline; she was visiting from Hobart.  Mrs. D explained that people were required to attend in costume or in theme; that is, utilising the letter 'S'.  I was in panic!  I could think of nothing and, in any case, the shops were all closed from Saturday afternoon on for the whole weekend (as it was the 70’s).

Caroline looked at her mother and said flatly, “Square-dance”.  After a pause, Caroline, Mrs. D and I were trotting down the cellar steps and, whilst I held a flashlight, they then retrieved a large trunk from behind a support pier and had me carry it back up into the house.  Opening it up, we had to remove tissue paper and some mothballs before a sea of material .  At this point I began to get nervous and, when they said we should do this upstairs, I began to actually panic, mumbling how it wasn’t important and Oriana would hardly turn me away from the party because of an oversight.  They weren’t listening.

Upstairs in Mrs. D’s large bedroom, her square dance outfits were laid out:  several flared cotton dresses, including a white poker dotted dress with puffy sleeves.  She had three enourmous petticoats in blue, red and white, which were multi-tiered in order to give the full effect.  At the bottom of the box were some shoes, underwear and accessories.

The other two began discussing things animatedly, as though I were not even there.  Caroline was getting really enthusiastic and finally turned to me and said I should go have a shower.  Whilst wanting to respond, I could only do as I was told.  When  drying, myself there was a knock, and Caroline passed around the door the frilliest white pair of what I now know as pettipants.  Lamely, I put them on and, using the towel around me, returned to the other two.  Caroline immediately removed the towel and clipped a bra around me from behind.  Using some rubbery inserts which, I assume she’d used in earlier years, she gave me reasonable but not undue cleavage.

At sixteen, I was pretty hairless on legs, chest and even face.  Therefore, without further ado, Mrs. D selected the white petticoat and laid it on the floor, bade me step into it, then whipped it up to my waist.  Whilst elasticised, it also had a small tie for security.  Almost immediately, Caroline had the white poker dot dress up and over my head.  I disappeared into a sea of material, the other two pulling it down about me.  Finally, my head reappeared and the bodice was in place.  Caroline buttoned me up at the back whilst Mrs. D fluffed the dress out to fully reach edge of the top petticoat layer.  Black leather court shoes were brought out but I couldn’t seem them to slip them on!  Caroline had to kneel down and place them on my feet, noting that it was fortunate Mrs. D was such a big woman.

The next half an hour was a blur.  An ash-brown wig, makeup and walking in heels familiarisation took place before I was allowed to look at myself in the hall mirror.  It was scary!  I looked good.  Convincing.  But I was scared and, moreover, I was excited.  What an amazing sensation of  material, lace, underwear, skirts and hair; complemented with perfume and the enforced method of deportment brought about by 3 inch heels and a voluminous skirt!

Mrs. D took me to the party.  I had to sit in the backseat because the layers and skirt obstructed the gear shift!  She explained that when she had danced, the petticoat was usually taken in a bag and donned immediately before dancing began.  After she dropped me off (promising to pick me up at the end) I rang the door bell.  Oriana answered and didn’t have a clue who I was.  I had to tell her.  Her face was a picture of disbelief, then a wonderful smile and a big hug.

Ironically, I had been the only guy invited to the party but given the way I was dressed, it may as well have been an all-girl affair.  Somehow, I was treated as though I was a girl and I really enjoyed the banter.  One of the girls, Karen, had a bit much of the cyder and tried to corner me in the bathroom and get under my skirt.  Fortunately, Oriana’s mum saved me and sent Karen to bed to sleep it off!

Anyway, at pick up time it was Caroline who drove up.  Driving home she asked me all sorts of questions about the day and how I’d coped.  When we got home, she put off helping me undress and, because her mum was out to play bridge, fixed us a drink and sat on the couch.  Caroline was a shapely and athletic girl, and in the minutes that followed no 16-yo boy in a huge skirt was permitted to say no.  She was all over me.  You can guess the upshot, but I guess the major outcome for me was the fact that I was hooked for life.  To experience foreplay, etc. dressed like that with an attractive partner had taken me across a boundary from which there was no return.

Return to Main "First Encounters" Page

Return to Petticoat Pond's Main Page

Back to the Top