His father called him Bart. Perhaps Philip Meuse thought that, if he persisted in doing so, his son would become a Bart. Beatrice always used his full, given name, Bartholomew, after her maternal grandfather. The other boys in school, the rough boys, named him "Mew Mew," because he was, "a scaredy cat," they said.

He was afraid of them and avoided their company. Instead he played with the girls, who accepted him without complaint. So the boys teased him, like they did the girls, but they didn't beat him up every day. That is what they would have done, Bartholomew was sure, if he had tried to join in their activities.

There was no way to avoid boys in Phys. Ed., it was all boys. The youngster invented illnesses he did not have and used them to engineer excuses from the dreaded activity. His doctor cooperated, probably knowingly, with this deception. In spite of his diagnoses, he assured the lad's anxious mother that there was nothing to be alarmed about. The boy would outgrow these minor problems. In the meantime, he should not participate in overly strenuous games and exercises. The physician gave permission, however, for Bartholomew to take long walks in the woods, if he liked, to ride a bicycle, in short, to do anything that he felt he could.

His age cohort entered junior high school and they were mixed with children from the three other elementary schools in their district. Older social arrangements gave way to new. There were dances now and Bartholomew could always get a date. He loved to dance with his friends.

Most of his girl friends talked excitedly about their favorite boys from music, TV and film. Bartholomew kept quiet about his favorite star, Mr. Rogers, who he still watched almost every afternoon. When that kindly gentleman in a sweater vest asked, "Ö would you be mine Ö," the youngster mouthed, " Yessss."

About this time a newly formed group at the high school, The Gay-Straight Alliance, caused a stir in the community. The oldest, most out of date stereotypes circulated among his classmates. Some of these peaked Bartholomew's interest. He had always liked dressing up in his mother's clothes.

The youngster began to pay attention to the issue when it appeared on TV news and entertainment. He listened to the views of his opinionated father (negative) and his unopinionated mother (neutral). He thought that perhaps he might be one of these odd people. On the other hand, he had no interest in little boys and no one had recruited him, whatever that meant. He guessed that he was too young to be gay, and would probably have to wait until high school.

It took the lad until half way through his freshman year to work up the nerve to attend his first meeting. He was practically shaking when he entered the room and nearly floating on air when he left, fifty minutes later. There was not the slightest doubt, he was one of them. He was home at last.

The group had a library of its own to augment the School's holdings. Reading everything, Bartholomew began to suspect that he had been born too late. Prior to that seminal year of 1969, homosexuals used to prance about, dish and call each other "Mary." If they weren't genuinely effeminate, they faked it. Now, throwing off self loathing behaviors and refusing to adhere to externally imposed stereotypes, proud gay men pumped iron. If they weren't genuinely butch, they faked it.

This was sad for the boy, especially as it was a bunch of drag queens who started the famous Stonewall resistance to police oppression. They were, however, quickly succeeded by the "clones" of Castro Street and the gentrification crowd from Beacon Hill. True, a remnant remained at drag clubs, particularly in the south. But the reign of the queen had ended, too soon to suit "Mew Mew."

*****

Bartholomew's spirits lifted when he spotted Mr. Gentle's ad in the personals section of the GLB newspaper. Many of the ads began with, "straight acting, straight appearing seeks same," or ended with, "no fats, no fems." He recognized the subtle admonishment from some members of his H.S. club concerning his somewhat effeminate behavior. These things hurt him. Why, of all people, didn't they accept and understand one's right to be oneself?

In an act of courage, he copied out the entire advertisement and hid it in the bottom of his underwear drawer, underneath the girly magazines that his older brother had given him and that he avidly read for entirely different reasons. Once a day, the lad would take it out and read the ad again. He wanted to answer but was too afraid.

After six weeks had passed Bartholomew decided that it was too late to respond to the ad. It no longer appeared in the paper and a letter wouldn't be forwarded. So he sent one in the same spirit as the letters to Santa Claus that he stopped writing only two years ago.

When he got a letter back, the boy nearly went into shock. It was a comforting letter, inquiring about the state of his health and wishing him happiness. Mr. Gentle didn't ask any prying questions or propose anything. Thereafter, the teenager wrote every day and received a daily response.

After three weeks of this, Mr. Gentle asked Bartholomew if he thought that they might meet. He suggested the new mall downtown. The youngster agreed because his mother had asked who he was getting the letters from. He told her they were from a friend from school who had recently moved away, but figured that one would be intercepted eventually. He chose a weekday afternoon.

Mr. Gentle waited for the lad at a table in the fast food area. He carried with him a currant copy of Time that he was using as a recognition sign and pretending to read. It was Mr. Gentle's turn to be shocked when the lad approached him. Bartholomew looked more like a tall twelve year old than a kid of fourteen, thin and pale, with jet black hair.

"Mr. Gentle?" the teenager asked. He almost said, "Mr. Rogers," the man looked so reassuringly bland and conventional. His hair was not as gray, the features were different, but he could have played the part. He rose in greeting.

They talked quietly at the table for a while. Then they strolled the mall and window shopped. Mr. Gentle bought him an orange soda and they chatted some more. They made a date for the following Saturday morning. Mr. Gentle explained that he had taken time off from work that day, but couldn't do so again.

For a while, the man and boy met on Saturday mornings and Sunday afternoons at the mall. But their conversation was constrained by their surroundings. When the youngster let on that he wished they could converse more privately, Mr. Gentle said that they could go to his apartment if Bartholomew wanted to.

Mr. Gentle's place was about a fifteen minute walk from the boy's house. They kept to the same Saturday Sunday schedule and spent many hours together. Although intimacy eluded them, with privacy, Bartholomew was able at last to tell someone his true feelings and beliefs on many subjects. The man loved to listen to the boy's chatter. Among other things, the teenager addressed the issue of transvestitism.

"Would you want to be a girl?" the man asked. " I think they call it sexual reassignment surgery."

"No!" the youth exclaimed. He went on the explain, in different words, that he enjoyed his male parts, they gave him immense pleasure and he wouldn't want to lose them.

"But you like to go about in drag," Mr. Gentle offered.

"I haven't. I'd like to, but not all the time. Just when I feel like it."

*****

One Saturday morning, when the youngster arrived at Mr. Gentle's house, he found that the man had a gift for him. It was in the shape of a shirt box, but a little larger. Bartholomew picked it up and found it to be light. He presumed that it must be clothing of some sort.

"What is it?" he asked, looking puzzled.

"Open it and find out."

It wasn't gift wrapped, so the teenager only had to lift off the cover. This he did and lay aside the tissue paper hiding the contents. The black garment seemed to be made of fine mesh, perhaps a costume of some sort.

"What is it?" he again inquired.

"Its called a Teddy, a type of sleepwear. There's a pair of panties, too. Some people wear the panties as well."

The youngster seemed to be stunned for a few moments. Then he jumped up and hurried into Mr. Gentle's bed room, taking the package with him and closing the door behind him.

A half hour later, he emerged, expressionless, wearing the outfit. Bartholomew walked slowly toward where Mr. Gentle was sitting on the sofa. Then, when he was within two feet, he launched himself into the man's arms, a look of ecstasy upon his face.

Something about wearing women's clothing liberated something in Bartholomew. They kissed and cuddled, laughed and giggled. Mr. Gentle's hands slipped easily inside the flimsy material of the teddy and the boy expressed no alarm when one of then slid underneath the backside of the black nylon panties. To Mr. Gentle, a male in drag was like a surprise package, a treat all done up pretty. There was a lot more boy to Bartholomew that even the youngster realized.

Still, the man thought it best to advance matters slowly. So it was several weeks before Mr. Gentle, who preferred the face to face, feet in the air method, saw the brave smile on Bartholomew's face and the tears in the corners of his eyes as they consummated their love. He was so proud of his boy and, for the first time, the boy was proud of himself.

*****

They didn't go out together in public until Bartholomew had turned eighteen. Then they were often mistaken for father and daughter. And what of the future? So far, the youngster has been too happy to consider the obvious. But by then Mew Mew will be a man/woman instead of a girl/boy. He'll manage just fine, as he has up to now.

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