Diary: Fantasizing About a Week-Long Retreat

I am dreaming up concrete plans for a week's retreat in seclusion to explore the depths of my affinity for femininity.  One day, I suppose, when I have some money saved up, I'll rent a place in the country, isolated, perhaps in the winter, where I can be alone and no one will disturb me.  I'll take it for at least a week, and make sure that no one knows where I am, or what it is I am doing.

I will either have accumulated over time a whole assortment of panties and bras and lingerie, or I'll buy it all on the way up, and an assortment of makeup, including lipstick, eyeliner, mascara, eyeshadow, and perhaps even rouge and nail polish.  My hair will be long and thick.  I'll bring a razor, or bottles of Nair, and remove all of my unsightly man hair, from my arms, my legs, my chest, my face, my back, my ass, my bikini line.  I'll be shaven smooth to the skin, like a girl, for a little while at least.  Then I'll shower, and abandon my male clothes.  I'll slip into the sexy lacy little panties awaiting me outside, and slowly relish getting all dressed up.  I'll pull on the silk stockings, hook them up to my garter belt, and parade around for a little while like a girl.  I'll spray a bit of perfume on myself, and make up my face.  Then I'll put on whatever sexy skirt and blouse or dress or whatever suits me best, and be a girl for the rest of the week.  I'll walk, talk, eat like a girl.  I'll sit like a girl, pee like a girl, think like a girl.  I'll admire myself in the mirror, because I want to see how beautifully feminine I have become.  I'll just stick around the place, not to leave, and masturbate about a hundred times, always careful not to soil my clothes.  No, better yet, I'll torture myself by waiting until night before I allow myself to do it, and do it until I am totally satisfied.  I'll wash up and go to bed in a silky nighty, without panties or anything.  I'll wake up in the morning and repeat everything, until I either get sick of it or vow to change my sex for real.  And I'll have to model bikinis and swimsuits and lingerie often.  If I feel really kinky, I'll shove a dildo up my ass when I masturbate.  

If I feel very successful, I'll venture out of my seclusion, at first unseen, but soon in public, as a woman.  As I gain confidence, I'll pick up guys and fuck them, or let them fuck me.  But I doubt that I'll get that much into it.  If I find that I'm feeling that feminine, I'll force myself to prefer male bodies.  Most likely, I will simply wear the clothes and feverishly anticipate my eventual release. 

The more I think of it, the more I would like to do this soon.  I want to discover my long-repressed sexuality.  This desire is extraordinarily powerful.  But I think that my desire to fuck women is more powerful, only rarer, and simply because it is social.  When I see people, I always want to fuck the pretty women.  Always.  Or rather, I want to worship them by falling in love with them and showering them with gifts and affection.  My fantasy, though, is much more personal, more pervading, more commanding.  I perpetually think of it when I'm home.  When I'm out, and I pass by lingerie stores, I think whimsically about owning certain items.  I have lately been accused on e-mail of being a woman.  I wasn't thinking about it at the time, but the comment made me want to answer sarcastically -- but honestly -- that I was busy dressing up in girl's underwear to care about what he said, or something like that.  I was almost flattered that he would call me a woman.  What a compliment, to be associated with perfection!

How perfect the female body is.  I recently cut out a Page 3 Girl, the prettiest, sexiest one I've seen in ages.  Somehow, she exudes femininity.  She wears a blue checkered sort of bra, probably from a bikini, and jean shorts up to her belly button, with the top button subtly, but erotically undone.  Underneath the shorts is probably a matching bottom.  She is photographed on her left side, and her right arm is raised, her hand pushing through her brown hair.  A few strands of hair sensuously rest upon her bare shoulder.  She leans on a stone wall, and shows off her hourglass shape by curving with her waist.  Her ribs protrude the slightest bit above her firm, curvaceously flat belly.  Her pretty face has an air of sensuous indifference, of basking in the glow of her own, self-conscious femininity, as if she is slightly bored of being so perfect, and resents that she is an object of desire for lowly men, despite her obvious, but malicious relish for her own beauty.  She knows that she is beautiful, and hates men for finding her so, but uses her natural gift of femininity to lure her lustful but brutishly lowly admirers into her trap, to be taken advantage of.

Notice that I always associate women with manipulation.  Genetically, they are.  They are made, apparently, to attract our gifts of protection and money and security.  When we can't provide it any longer, they dump us.  Our sex, which is the most important thing in them to us, is useless to them.  Our sex is just a toy, a pastime to them.  They only pretend to enjoy it, because it makes us think that we are worth something to them besides our money and power.  Oh, well.  They simply rule.