Vancouver
3 min

Puberty, take one

It seemed that balls were flying at me from every direction.

Opening Scene: Mistress Rosamond stands before her gilded mirror at the fabulously lush font of beauty, The Kink Klinik. Her face and figure are statuesque, yet perfectly proportioned. Idly brushing her luxuriant golden locks, a pensive smile plays about her full lips.

The music (I Gotta Be Me) swells to a crescendo as the Mistress reflects on her humble beginnings. It’s been an arduous journey to reach her present state of perfection, but she’s come out of it on schedule and terribly over budget.

Flashback, scene one: In the town of Butthole, Middle of Nowherelandia. Our heroine towers over the other students, standing wretchedly in the middle of a very muddy, chilly soccer field. Smaller children are deflected by a simple flick of the wrist as she sadly contemplates the damage sports are causing to her cuticles.

(Mistress Rosamond voiceover:) Ah, my little titmice. Back in Butthole, I was subjected to numerous, soul debilitating attempts to butch me up. One of these came in the guise of football! That’s right, oh tiny ducklings, football. Pigskin! It wasn’t altogether the craziest notion, since at age 10, I was already several inches taller, (or more magnificent, shall I say?) than all the boys in my class. I was big, baby. And being naturally statuesque, I developed a handy strategy for dealing with sports. I simply stood in the middle of the field, and no one could knock me over. Brilliant, non?

Of course, as I stood out in the middle of the mucky, ooky sports field, deflecting flying balls and sending the midgets sprawling, I dreamt only of lying in the school nurse’s office, howling with agonizing menstrual cramps. Oh, to be a real girl!

I was exactly like a human Pinnochio! Well, except that I wasn’t made of wood, or Italian, and my father wasn’t a puppet maker named Guiseppe, and my nose didn’t grow all long or anything. Oh yeah, and I definitely did not want to be a real boy! Apart from that, as you can see, we were identical. Très tragique tormented lost souls…

At one point, my despair over balls in general grew uncontrollable. You must remember that I began my turgid pubescence at the tender age of 10! My dears, hairs sprouting everywhere and things growing out and up in entirely the wrong fashion. I was horrified. It seemed that balls were flying at me from every direction. I felt forced to take action. There was nothing I could do about the balls on the field, but a plan did come to my feverish mind.

Scene two: Emergency room, Mistress Rosamond on a stretcher, dramatically clutching a little lower down.

(Mistress Rosamond voiceover:) Now dear ones, this comes under the category of don’t try this at home! Of course, I was only 10, morbidly depressed and extremely desperate. It occurred to me that those pesky balls of mine could probably be quite handily lopped off with a pair of cuticle scissors. In retrospect and after several years of extensive therapy, I have come to realize that this was perhaps not actually the most efficient solution. Some things are probably best left to the professionals.

Scene Three: High school auditorium, the children on stage, dressed for performance, Mistress Rosamond, front and center, singing her heart out.

(Mistress Rosamond voiceover:) Many of my more glorious moments were marred by puberty. Take for example, the time that I sang with Peter Ustinov. I was selected from all the students in the outer lying Buttfuck area. I was picked for my sublime soprano voice, star quality, charisma, charm, natural glowing blonde locks and fabulous good looks, but mainly for my soprano voice.

My sweet voice filled the auditorium with glorious song. Was it a human being singing? Or had a beauteous angel fallen from the sky?

Suddenly, at exactly mid-point in my rendition of We Are the World, my voice changed dramatically from angel soprano to Tony Soprano. What was this beastly croaking emanating from my dainty throat?

It was this trauma that preceded the aforementioned attempt at unsightly ball removal. All that got me was a night in Emergency and the meanest therapist ever to walk on the planet. She told me, among other ghastly things, that there was no such thing as a sex change operation! Why, I stand before you today in all my womanly grandeur as living proof that she was wrong.

Oh, she also told me that I hated my mother. Good blasted ballsy grief! My mother owned some of the best dresses I have ever had the pleasure to sneak out to the mall in. I most certainly never hated her. Très ridiculoso. J’adore Maman!

Final scene: Return to Mistress Rosamond in her present day glory, standing in front of the mirror at the Kink Klinik, gazing adoringly at a picture of her dear mamma.

These moments of cinematic history were brought to you by the Mistress herself, while Hedy held the mic stand.