Saturday, April 01, 1995

Diary: Panties and Hose at Work

Now I'm tired of these pointless homoerotic fantasies.  The only appeal that they have is their kinkiness, which doesn't altogether do all that much for me.  When I slithered into bed after writing that, I could only think of fucking the beautiful girls of my fantasies, not of wearing their panties.  Go figure.  I even thought for a while that I was losing interest in transsexuality.  But, as I'm wearing my black panties right now, I know it isn't so.

Last friday, I wore these panties and some pantihose to work.  For over none hours, I wore girls' clothes under my work clothes.  I walked all the way to the gay part of town to pick up my water bottle from another location, all the while wondering how many people in that area were transsexual like me, and musing about whether it would be fun to mess around with one who could teach me a few things.  But of course, they just don't appeal to me.  They're not women, after all.  Only a real woman can turn me on, can teach me how to be like her.  Only real girls titillate me.  Fags still disgust me, although I sometimes wonder about my own sexuality.  Would I really engage in some kind of homosexuality if I ever got to be completely in drag?  I doubt it.  I have a perpetual instinct on the lookout for girls.  Unfortunately, I don't think that I can adequately enjoy women and transsexuality at the same time.  It's a shame, too.  They should go hand in hand.


Instead, I sit around fantasizing about women's clothing all the time, imagining what I could do if I ever got my hands on all sorts of women's apparel to satisfy myself.  Am I a woman trapped inside a man's body?  Or am I a lesbian trapped iside a man's body?  Or am I just one who worships femininity so much that he must strive to acheive it?  What diffeence does it make?  Femininity is a totally impossible objective.  I saw a man in drag a couple of weeks ago at Booth 5, and he looked like a man.  He was wearing a tight little miniskirt and had beautifully shaven legs, but he was just too big to be a girl, and he couldn't carry himself femininely.  He had nothing like breasts, just a shaven chest showing where cleavage should have been.  It was a pitiful sight.  And I remember a segment on Unsolved Mysteries in which a transsexual businessman had swindled people.  He eventually got a sex change, and when they captured him, he had the build of a man: a ruddy, fattish face, a beer belly and girth, but he had long hair and saggy tits.  He was female, but age had brought out all the male features.  I wonder if he had neglected to take his estrogen.  If he didn't, does that mean that he was always doomed to look masculine, even after his momentous decision?  Or was it just laziness?  Had he put as much work into it as RuPaul, would he have managed to look feminine?  But it would take work, and he was caught unaware, unprepared.  He couldn't make himself up.  I guess it takes work to maintain femininity with which one was not gifted at birth.  It's impossible for me to become as feminine as real girls.  They rule.  I would have to have my bones shrunk, learn to walk and talk and carry myself anew, as if I had never learned before.  Those things are impossible to achieve.  Bummer.  I would love to just be a woman for a day, or be able to change my sex at will.  I could be a woman whenever I feel like it, in every aspect.  Wouldn't that be something.  But meanwhile, I become more and more accustomed to wearing women's clothes, and enjoy it thoroughly, although warily.  I might become a total drag queen if I'm not careful; but that's strangely appealing.  I want to, but I know that I shouldn't.  It is, I suppose, evil in a way, because I know that it's not acceptable behaviour, but I continue anyway, to my utmost satisfaction.  Well, so be it!  I enjoy it so bloody much.

I read Kafka's Metamorphosis today.  I was thinking of how interesting it would be to rewrite it, or to write a similar story, in which the central character becomes a woman.  I have always been strangely allured by the idea of metamorphosis, into really anything.  It's just sexy somehow to think that one could become something completely unrelated to one's nature, or at least be altered into something different, be it grotesque or beautiful.  I was fascinated by a certain album cover, on which a man's eyes had been transplanted from his head to his hands.  Truly fascinating.  There was also a music video in the 80's which had a man following some mysterious force, and being transformed into something like DaVinci's Vitruvian Man.  The idea of becomeing something else is very appealing.  Especially of becoming a girl.  How I would love to know what it's like to be a girl.  I read of a man who had had his sex changed, and regretted it because of social oppression.  He arranged to have flesh removed from his leg and formed into a new penis so that he could be a man again.  That's revoltingly absurd.  Why would one want to abandon femininity?  Sure, it's abused, but think of the rewards!  Ultimate beauty!  Smoothness, sleekness, delicacy. . . perfection!

As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a beautiful woman. . .