Dear Madame,

I have been buying your magazine on and off for several years now, and while a good part of it does not appeal to me, I am always drawn back to it. I am twenty five and a virgin; in my loneliness I have increasingly retreated into fantasy. But in my dreams there is no fulfilment, only humiliation. So I have decided to give you some idea of my fantasies.

I imagine a woman who dresses her teenage son as a little girl. A pretty chiffon party dress, pink, with little white bows and frills, tiny puff sleeves, a swirly full skirt, short enough to reveal his frilly petticoats underneath. The silly boy is too weak-willed to resist, but his face is red with shame. He hates the very softness of his clothes. 'Don't be embarrassed', says his mother, 'You look so much nicer now. So pretty and girlish. You'll have to have a girl's name: we'll call you Susan, such a sweet name'. She styles his hair so that he does look really girlish, adding a matching pink ribbon, and makes him stand in front of a full-length mirror.

Later, when she has taken him downstairs, imagine his feeling of horror when he hears the door bell ring. A smile on her face, his mother goes to answer the door, and from the hallway he hears laughter and girlish giggles...he wants to flee, anywhere, but he knows he can't, he is trapped.  It is the next-door neighbour, Kathleen, and her two young daughters, Karen and Tina.

The room rings with their laughter when they when they see the poor boy, and there is a look of sheer delight on the girls' faces. I can see them crowding around him, teasing him: 'Oh, Mummy, doesn't she look sweet, oh how pretty, such a cute dress Susan, it really suits you'.

And there goes the bell again. This time it is Christine and her teenage daughter Kim come to join in the fun. Kim is such an attractive girl, even the boy cannot help noticing that, and the look of excitement on her face only makes her look prettier. The women watch while their daughters play with their new toy. Kim holds back his arms while Karen and Tina lift up his skirt and petticoats, giggling at his flimsy panties, and gleefully pinching his bottom. 'Look', laughs Kim, 'There are tears in his eyes. What a big baby you are, Susan, you should be in nappies and be given a dummy'.

'Please, please, don't do this to me', he cries out between his sobs, 'Please, oh please!' But his appeals are only laughed at, there are only further humiliations, years of girlish torments. He is taken outside, teased, laughed at, surrounded by giggling girls who love see him squirm and cry. Perhaps, encouraged by her friends, his mother will decide to extend his humiliation, making his frocks all the more babyish, giving him dolls to play with, pushing a dummy in his mouth (oh, how he hates that!) and teaching him baby talk.

How the women love to see him fastened to a chair at feeding time, as baby is given his bottle, forced to swallow every drop of the horrid, sickly sweet milk. Or to be actually breast fed: picture his look of fear as he sees a young woman unbuttoning her blouse. 'Here, come to Mummy', she laughs. There is a look of pure pleasure on the face of the woman as he gently suckles her breasts, but how baby sobs with shame afterwards!

I do not write from any sort of experience: these are only the dreams of someone who has become obsessed with femininity and his distance from it.

Pete
London.

It is sad that there seems to be no genuinely workable way of bringing mummies and babies together so that they could meet each other in a relaxed atmosphere. The party that p.j. is hosting in San Francisco might be a partial answer, and I must get more details from p.j. about how these parties work. There are so many lonely babies out in the world, which makes the 'Petticoat Discipline Monthly' Christmas Annual a comforting publication I hope, because loneliness is often worse during festive periods.
Susan