Dear Editor,

As a firm believer in dress discipline for males, I do not simply dress my husband in sissy clothes; I also insist he behaves in a manner befitting his juvenile status in our household. When properly petticoated (or in one of his equally charming sissy pants outfits), he is required to speak in a soft, childish tone, and to use a vocabulary appropriate for a five-year-old. He must walk like a proper sissy, mincing on tiptoes with his elbows pinned to his sides and wrists turned out. He must sit and stand daintily with knees together and skirt kept modestly lowered. He must curtsey before entering or leaving an occupied room. He must ask permission to do most things, such as leaving the dinner table or going potty. He must keep his pretty clothes clean, his appearance modest and neat. And he now answers to his new name, Prissy Peterkins. These and many other rules of sissy perfect behavior enforce his petticoat discipline as effectively as his pretty clothes. He has become used to wearing girlish outfits, but he still blushes with shame at having to act like a proper sissy, particularly in front of others. Of course, I make sure he has plenty of opportunity to do just that.
 
The other day Prissy was washing up in the kitchen after lunch. He wore one of his typical sissy outfits: A pink ruffled pinafore over a crisply starched, back-buttoning white blouse with a broad Peter Pan collar. A precious little pink bow in the center of the collar and high-waisted, flyless velveteen burgundy shorts buttoned onto the blouse and showed a hint of the heavily frilled pink bloomers he wore underneath. A binkie hung on a prettily embroidered leash buttoned onto his pinafore above the left breast. A lace-edged pink bonnet framed his lightly made-up face and tied in a big bow under the chin. Frilly white anklets and black Mary Jane shoes completed the pretty picture.
 
As he finished his cleanup chores, Peterkins was no doubt looking forward to his afternoon nap. That is the time when I am at my most gently maternal with him. I undress him down to his frilly undies, put him into his soft nylon nightie with the drawstring hem to enclose his feet and tuck him into his custom-made crib. But on this afternoon there was to be no nap and cuddle time, for just as the last of the dishes were being put away, the doorbell rang.
 
Peterkins has been taught to suck his thumb whenever he feels anxious, and the ringing doorbell made him anxious indeed. His thumb leaped into his mouth, and he began sucking vigorously. (He is permitted to use his binkie only when directed to do so.) He looked at me fearfully, hoping against hope that I would not make him answer the door. One sharp glance from me dashed any chance of that. He knows from bitter experience he simply cannot resist my wishes. If I want to display him to a stranger, then I will do so. He knows any attempt at resistance will only make matters worse for him. Seeing my determined gaze, he realized there was no escape from his predicament. His eyes lowered, and his face registered sad resignation.
 
Terrified at having to answer the door, he was actually whimpering as he minced to the front hall. He opened it timidly, and in strode my sister Jean (whom I was expecting but he was not). Jean has often seen Prissy Peterkins in his sissy clothes but never fails to find new ways to embarrass him. He is dreadfully afraid of her – shameful for him, but quite delightful for Jean and me.