I grew up on an inner-city council housing estate, in the home counties of the UK. My father was often away from home as he was a long distance lorry driver. It was therefore left mainly to my mother to raise my sister and me.

At the time of the first incident I would have been around twelve years of age and my sister a year younger.
Mum was fairly strict with us, and not shy about dishing out a spanking when she felt it was necessary. For me it was usually delivered across the seat of my school shorts. This was something my sister was particularly annoyed about, because she always had to lift her skirt and take it across the seat of her knickers.

Leading up to my first petticoating incident, I suppose on reflection I had been very disobedient. I think that Mum was prepared to turn a bit of a blind eye to what I had been up to, but only up to a point. She usually dished out a scolding for things like scrumping apples from the orchard close to where we lived. Worse could be expected for stuff like breaking a window whilst playing football, but as I said she would only tolerate misdemeanours up to a point.

The point came and was crossed, the day I pushed my little sister. She had run into Mum complaining that I had hit her. Mother came flying out of the house a few seconds later, looking like a galleon of the Spanish Armada in full sail. I was grabbed and hauled off the street unceremoniously, in front of a few of my sniggering friends.

Indoors Mum sat on a chair in the lounge with me standing facing her. She demanded to know why I had hit my little sister. I couldn’t give an answer that would satisfy her. After a royal dressing down I was ordered up to my room and told to strip off and put on my pyjamas. Fearing the worst, I shot upstairs and did as I was told.

Mum came in a few minutes later and hauled me over her knees for a bare bottom spanking, six slaps on each cheek. By the time she had finished my bottom was on fire, and stinging like mad. As it turned out though it was what happened the following day which set the precedent for a different regime of punishment for me.

The day after I received the spanking it turned out I had actually run out of clean socks. The norm at that time in the U.K. was that boys wore grey knee socks and girls wore white. It didn’t matter whether you were at school, or on the weekends. There just wasn’t the diversity of clothing available to children there is today. In fact in those days, it was not unusual to see children out shopping with their parents on Saturdays, dressed in full school uniform.
 
This particular Saturday came at the end of a half term week, one that had been particularly hard on my clothing. During the week I had played with my friends around the stream that ran along the bottom of our housing estate. Not only did we play around the stream some of us actually ended up in the stream, hence the reason why I was short on socks.

When I got up on this fateful day I found out I had no clean socks in my underwear drawer so I called downstairs to Mum and asked her to bring some up. I continued dressing as I waited for her to bring up my socks, fully expecting some clean grey ones. Being a little more fortunate than a lot of the kids on our estate, I actually owned a pair of jeans and had just put them on when Mum turned up. She walked through the door and told me I had no clean socks to wear, as she hadn’t had time to wash the extra load placed on her from my exploits at the stream.
She held out her hand and said, ‘you’ll have to wear these for today and I’ll get yours clean for school on Monday.’

I looked in horror at the pair of white knee socks my mother held and shouted, ‘I’m not wearing them they’re girls’ socks.’

Mother just laughed and said, ‘Don’t be so silly it’s just a pair of socks. It’s not as if anyone is going to see them under your jeans, is it?’

Still I flatly refused to budge, ‘I won’t wear them,’ I complained again as Mother tried to reason with me. ‘They are too sissy.’

Eventually Mum got tired of arguing. She sat on the bed and hauled me over her lap for another spanking.
A little while later I sat at the table eating my breakfast between sobs, wearing the white knee socks under my jeans.

I firmly believe that had I not kicked up such a fuss about wearing them, Mum would probably never have gotten the idea for a new method of discipline for me. That Saturday I stayed in and was very quiet. I didn’t want to go out to play with my friends for fear that they would discover I was wearing girls’ socks under my jeans.

I was similarly affected on Sunday, with again having to wear a pair of my sister’s white knee socks.
I forgot all the trauma of that weekend on Monday, as Mum had done the washing and I was back wearing my own socks.

But Mum apparently hadn’t forgotten my reaction to wearing girls’ socks though, or the fact that I was quieter that weekend than she had ever known me to be. The next time I was particularly naughty Mum in exasperation took me in to her bedroom where there was a pile of suspiciously unfamiliar clothes on her bed.
 
She handed me the items to put on and started with a pair of my sisters’ navy blue school knickers. Next came the white knee socks I had rowed with her about previously. She gave me my school short trousers and shirt, then allowed me to finish putting on my tie and sweater as she went downstairs warning me to be downstairs in two minutes flat, or I would get another hiding.

I did as I was told and within the allotted time I was standing in front of Mum in the lounge, feeling very self-conscious wearing the clothes I was.

‘Now then Thomas’ she said. ‘I’ve warned you repeatedly about your behaviour recently and in particular about your bullying of your little sister. As you seem to have no trouble ignoring me and hitting girls you must obviously be a sissy, not able to fight with boys. So if you’re a sissy I feel that you should dress like one.’

Before I had chance to react however, she carried on talking. ‘I have replaced all of your long trousers. You won’t get them back until I think you’ve mended your ways. From now on you will be dressed in shorts. I have also removed your grey school socks and you will wear white ones to school.

‘For this weekend you will wear knee socks. For school on MondayI have bought you some white ankle socks, but if you give me cause you will be wearing girls’ white knee socks to school. Understand?’

I nodded my head, feeling very frightened. The prospect of going to school in short ankle socks would be bad enough, but in girls’ knee socks was unthinkable.

She reached down the side of her chair and produced a pair of brown T-bar sandals and dropped them on the floor in front of me. ‘Put these on for today’ she said. ‘I have to go shopping and you will be coming with me.’

The sandals were new, Clarks I think, and in my size, but were quite obviously girls’ sandals as the “T” was low down on the foot. As I slipped them on and did up the small silver buckles I sniffed and sobbed and pleaded not to make me do this, but again she warned of the consequences of any disobedience.

Once I had my new sandals on, Mum stood up and walked towards the door, she looked down at me as she passed and said, ‘Come on lets go I have a lot to do.’

At the front door Mum produced a handkerchief and wiped my face, She called upstairs to my sister and told her we wouldn’t be too long then propelled me outside.

We walked down the road to the bus stop and waited for the bus into town. Standing waiting for the bus I was terrified that I would be seen by my friends dressed as I was, but fortunately for me none of them appeared. Mrs. Wiggins, a neighbour from along the road who occasionally babysat my sister and me when my parents went out, did turn up though.

She smiled at me and said, ‘Hello Thomas,’ then began talking to Mum without waiting for me to reply. Through the course of their conversation I caught several references to myself, and what I was wearing as Mum explained her new punishment for me.

Duly the bus arrived and we boarded for the journey to town. I was ushered upstairs followed by Mum and Mrs Wiggins. As I climbed up to the upper deck I was acutely aware of several girls of around my age, sitting on the bench seats closest to the stairs. They were afforded a perfect view of my socks and sandals and I realised they had seen them when one leaned closer to her friend nudged her and nodded in my direction with a wide grin on her face.

I got to the top of the stairs beet red and hurried to the front of the bus to sit down. The rest of the ten-minute journey was uneventful and we arrived at our stop in the centre of town.

Mum walked me around the town centre for about an hour as we went into various shops. After probably the worst hour of my life she announced we were finished and we made our way to the bus stop for our return journey. We reached the bus stop, which was outside of a red-cross charity shop, and stopped to wait for the bus. As we waited Mum spotted something in the window of the shop and said to me, come in here I have one last thing to get.

With that she pulled me through the door of the shop and then walked up to the counter. A woman of about sixty stood at the counter, but apart from her the shop was empty. I couldn’t believe my ears when I heard what Mum said to the shop assistant.

Without any hesitation in her words she said to the woman. ‘I want the gymslip you have in the window display for my son. He’s undergoing petticoat punishment for being nasty to his little sister. As he insists on hitting girls I have decided that he must be a sissy and I have decided to treat him like one until he shows me that he has mended his ways.’

The shop assistant didn’t even bat an eyelid. She looked at me as though I was something on the bottom of her shoe and said ‘certainly Madam, would you like the boy to try it on?’

‘Yes please’ answered Mum, ‘I wouldn’t want him get away with his punishment because his dress didn’t fit.’

In a panic I said,‘No Mum no, I’m not a girl please don’t make me look like one, I promise I’ll be good. I don’t want to wear a dress.’

Mother looked down at me and said, ‘I’ve already told you and I’m not going to repeat myself so get in the changing room and take off your shorts and sandals, or you’ll be trying it on out here.’

Sobbing again, I went into the changing room and the shop lady handed the navy blue gymslip to me over the top of the curtain. ‘There you are,’ she said. ‘Pop that on, then come out so we can see what you look like.’

I took the dress and asked her how to get into it.

‘Silly boy’ she said, pulling open the curtain. She took the dress from me then gathered it up and dropped it over my head. She adjusted it so it hung properly and then did up the button at the waist and the two buttons on my left shoulder.

‘Right,’ she said pulling me out of the changing cubicle, ‘Let’s show your mother what a proper little sissy you look like.’

I was propelled into the middle of the shop and had to do a twirl for Mum and the shop woman. I must have looked a proper sight by this time. Here I was, a twelve-year-old boy standing in the middle of a charity shop crying my eyes out. I was dressed in a navy blue school gymslip, school knickers, white shirt, school tie and white knee socks.

‘Ok’ said Mum, ‘we’ll take it, go and get it off and put your shorts back on she said to me, while I pay for this.’

I was just about to move when the shop assistant said to Mum ‘I have some accessories for the naughty little sissy if your interested?’

Mum looked up out of her purse and said, ‘That depends, what have you got?’

With a smile the shop assistant walked back around her counter and picked up a light blue Alice-band, which she slipped over my head.

Mum spoke to me in a stern voice and said, ‘Thomas if you don’t stop crying you’ll be wearing that dress home.’
Hearing this I managed to contain myself.

‘Strictly speaking’ the woman said, ‘the gymslip is winter wear and he really should be wearing shoes, not sandals with it.

My spirits lifted slightly at the thought that Mum may relent and allow me to wear my shoes instead of the sandals. However, my hopes were dashed as the woman produced a pair of Mary Jane, single strap girls’ shoes.

‘These should go with the uniform perfectly.’ The woman guided me to a stool and sat me down. She lifted my feet up one at a time, pulled up each sock and put the shoes on my feet. She did up the buckles then had me stand up.

She pushed the toe of each shoe down, feeling for my toes to make sure they were not too tight. She then ordered me to walk up and down the shop.
After a couple of trips up and down the aisle she looked at Mum and said, ‘I do believe they are a perfect fit.’
Mum agreed, and paid for the items we had bought while I went back to the changing room to put on the clothes I had worn into town.

I bent down to take off the Mary-Jane shoes, but Mum shouted to me to leave them on with the threat that if I complained, I would be wearing the gymslip home as well.

We went back home on the bus, with me still sniffing and feeling even more self-conscious, wearing girls’ white knee socks and single strap shoes.

When we got home, I was made to change into the new gymslip school uniform with the addition of one of my sisters’ blouses instead of a shirt. I also had to wear one of her white vests, which had a small pink rose at the base of the V-neck. I stayed dressed like this for the remainder of the weekend and consequently was very quiet, and didn’t venture outside.

My sister got me back by threatening to bring her friends home and show me to them, whilst I was wearing a girls’ school uniform. After flying into a panic and pleading to Mum not to let her do it, Mum forbade my sister from even mentioning my punishment outside the house.

Mum didn’t carry out her threat to make me go to school in white ankle socks and girls’ sandals, but I had to wear the navy blue knickers as a reminder of my misdeeds. She also made it quite clear to me that if my behaviour regressed, I could well be going to school in a gymslip.

To reinforce her determination to make me mend my ways, I was still forced to wear bits and pieces of my girls’ clothing occasionally. One time I can remember her making play in the garden wearing my school shorts, girls’ white knee socks, and Mary Jane shoes. When I came indoors I was ordered to change into my gymslip and once again spent the whole weekend as a meek and quiet schoolgirl.

Did my mothers’ treatment work? Well I suppose on the whole, it did. The petticoating incidents got less, but then so did the spankings and I think my behaviour did improve. I certainly made sure I never hit girls again, which was the thing that sparked off the petticoating in the first place.

The threat of a spell undergoing petticoat punishment never really disappeared throughout my schooling and mother adapted it suit other misdemeanours. I don’t think any of my peers ever found out about my mothers’ punishment regime, but I’m sure their parents did. I don’t know whether any of my peers underwent a similar punishment regime, but looking back I suspect that some did.

I still remember the day in the charity shop every time I walk past it. Even though it is no longer a charity shop, the memories linger on.

Would I advocate the use of this punishment for boys today? I think the answer is probably yes. I never had to use it on my own son as he proved to be just the opposite of me.

The threat of exposure, I feel is the key to a successful petticoat punishment regime. Dressing a male child in excessively sissy, childish or girlish clothes works up to a point. In order for it to be successful in moderating a boy’s behaviour however, psychology must be applied to the punishment. Outside of family members the boy’s punishment should be kept secret. I believe it was only the threat to send me to school in progressively girlish/sissyish clothing that kept my behaviour in check. If the secret had got out the disciplining effect might have been lost, although a lot of your correspondents have obviously found out differently.
Mothers, keep on petticoating,

T. E.

I think that your mother struck just the right balance here. The desired effect was achieved, but without making your life unbearable, and it is no wonder that you are now an advocate of petticoat punishment when necessary. I don't know whether Mrs Wiggins had any children of her own, but if so, I wager her sons spent their share of time in petticoats and other frilly underthings!
Susan