Monday, January 15, 1996

Diary: A Frolic

It's been a while since I've written anything here.  That last experience says it all, I think.  So here I sit, clad in my little black panties, a white bra, a garter belt, and white fishnet stockings.  I love it.  It always amazes me how tantalizing the thought of wearing women's clothing can be.  I think of all the things I could possibly wear, and I feel disappointed because I simply don't have the time or sexual energy to wear it all.  Sometimes, I feel so horny that I want to wear one thing, then I look at all my feminine stuff, and I suddenly can't make up my mind.  Do I want to wear this bathing suit, or the panties?  Oh, Goddess, how I wish I had a bikini right now!  And that thought just came to me this very instant.  How I used to love slipping into that green bikini at night, and become a girl again for a few minutes.  It was so soft, and skimpy. . .  But now, I'm wearing underwear, and I can't complain.  I only wish that I could do this forever.  I'm going to put on one of Mom's skirts, just for fun.

It's pretty decent.  But I need something much sexier.  I just love to think of women's clothes: all the silk, satin, lace, all the straps that curl around a calf, a thigh, a back. . . I just love to imagine myself naked, and suddenly strapped into an incredibly erotic feminine outfit that I must masturbate in, much to my masculinity's demise.  It just feels so good to completely abandon my masculinity, and try to become a girl.  I will do it now.

Wednesday, January 10, 1996

Commentary: A Fascinating Omission

There is a fascinating omission in my diary at this point. I had just bought lingerie, after years of longing, and shaven my legs for the first time in order to enjoy it that much more, and to feel that much more feminine. Note that I mentioned an upcoming ski trip.

It turned out that my leg hair hadn't grown back in time for the trip. I spent a week in a condo with a group of friends, hiding my legs. One of these friends, a girl, slept platonically in the same bed with me the whole week. This same girl, partly based on the time we spent together that week, would become my lover some weeks later.  She is henceforth referred to as A__.

It amazes me that I wouldn't mention this shameful experience at all in my diary. Or perhaps it partly accounts for the months-long gap in entries.  This was, after all, a celebration of my fetish, and such moments of shame and self-loathing had no place in it.  If anything, I kept the diary as a way to titillate myself into femininity.

Anyhow, it's an important incident, and worth mentioning.