In my early teens, I was a bully magnet. Quiet, studious, excused gym on medical grounds…and a bit overweight. On that last note, bullies would often taunt me about needing a girdle. This was the late seventies when “real” girdles were still commonly advertised.
At the start of the new school year, I was on my way to school in my new uniform when I was attacked. I was told my uniform was missing something and was handed a box. It was a brand new girdle. I tried to get away but a struggle ensued. I was scared of damaging my new uniform, so I told them to stop. And as they laughed and taunted me, I struggled into my new girdle, bawling my eyes out as I did so. Photos were taken. I felt literally sick as I was told the price of their silence – the girdle was to be a permanent addition to my uniform. If I got caught once at school without my girdle on, the photos would go public.
The girdle was a firm control, long leg panty with a relatively high waist. I guess they chose it to maximise my discomfort. I think the older sister of the ringleader had sized me up for it as it was a good tight fit. (My stiff-legged walk as we headed to school saw me christened “Frankenstein”, later shortened to Frank, a name that stuck with me throughout the school.) The next few hours were agony. At the end of the day, I hurried home and rushed up to my room to take it off. I was almost crying in frustration in my rush to get my uniform off and, once I had taken my girdle off, I threw it across the room.
The enormity of the situation hit me the next morning. I thought about the humiliation that would come my way if I was exposed as a crossdresser. How would I be able to face my classmates? How would I be able to face my parents! But if that was not an option, there was only one alternative. I put on my normal underwear and then, with my lip quivering, I stepped into my panty girdle and tugged it on before putting on my uniform and heading downstairs for breakfast. I was just 14 when I had to accept this fate.
Not only was I accepting having to wear women’s underwear, but it was also a girdle. A girdle! Words can’t really convey the horror I felt at the prospect. It was holding in my saggy belly, firmly squeezing my backside, the legs were gripping my thighs – it was a girdle! I was really wearing a panty girdle! And this was going to be the new normal until they decided to let me stop, whenever that might be.
It turned out to be until I left school. Four long years.