If I wereexposed they would deny all knowledge and leave me to face thewrath and rage saying that it was my desire to be like this.I waited downstairs...standing in the kitchen alone. All five ofthem were still upstairs getting ready and I could hear theirchatter and laughter. In the hallway I could just see a pictureof my mother. It had been taken years ago on a family holiday. Ifshe were still alive she would not recognise her son. I lookeddown at my dress, tights clad legs and boots and then. At first, I found the "Good girl" just the icing on the cake, a final bit of patronizing on top of the torture. Then I began to tolerate it, then appreciate...then live for it. I needed approval. It was all I had.After some months, he stopped taking me out of my cage. One day, he just stopped. I didn't know why at the time. He wouldn't even look at me. He'd pass by my cage a few times a day, but not even acknowledge me. Why won't he talk to me? Why can't I be called a good girl. More

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