I read Richard Slotkin's Regeneration Through Violence in August, and learned how American men strive to destroy the wilderness, because they love it. There is a deep-seated psychological need to cannibalise your victims: thus, the American destroys the wilderness because he knows that he must merge with it. Or something like that. His greatest fear, and his greatest desire, are contradictorily, to merge with the wilderness: he fears becoming an Indian, and he needs to become an Indian to conquer the wilderness; to conquer the wilderness, he must become part of it. Does this sound familiar yet?
Slotkin used many examples. I have one of my own.
Here I am, typically male in that I love women and their exquisite bodies as mythical objects which I must worship from afar. Because in my youth, sex was so alien to me, I had to idealize the female body somehow. The real thing is somehow different from the fantasy, in ways that I cannot yet define. This has become embedded in my psyche as an ideal of femininity.
Clearly, because women always wear a particular type of design of underwear, which accentuates their femininity, I have come to associate these articles of clothing with femininity. So when I think of the ideal woman, I think of sexy lingerie or swimsuits or whatever.
Now, because I love women so much (and I do believe that I have iterated this before), I want to become one. I need to take on the attributes of this ideal which I hold so high. So I must somehow attempt to assimilate myself into womanhood. I wear women's clothing, in the cannibalistic hope that wearing their clothes will turn me into one of them. It's like the primitive hunter who eats the bear's heart to gain his courage. I don't have to kill, or eat; but I do have to take something of the female. Indians have been known to wear animal skins, believing that doing so gives them the animal's power. So here I am, wearing women's "skin" to gain the woman's power.
But does that explain the overpowering urge to wear girls' underwear? The entire idea of being captured by girls and being forced to become one of them seems to me extremely similar to the notion of the white captive going Indian, much to his and his people's horror. Look at my fantasies of the past 44 pages, and note how often the captivity myth creeps in there. It's certainly something to think about.
Meanwhile, I continue to struggle with the fact that I am a flaming transvestite. When I read little snippets of the previous entry in this femininity diary, my heart jumped with excitement. I can't help it. The idea of wearing girls' clothes turns me on so much that I my heart leaps when I just think of it. It's so much more appealing than sex. Sadly, in a way, but thankfully in another. I can't imagine a more passionate, more pure way of acheiving all of my sexual desires than effeminating myself. It's sad because I'll never make love as passionately as I transsexualize myself, and it's that much more tantalizing for exactly the same reason: I am a freak of nature, because I have warped myself into this by persistently wearing women's clothes. That means that somehow, in my tantalizingly sick little girlish mind, it's working. I am becoming more feminine as I wear these things. I keep pushing myself, too. I lose a bit of interest, and I force myself sometimes to wear them. Then it all comes right back, in full force, and I feel an incredible undeniable desire to womanize. Like now, I had only the vaguest notion of horniness about this, when I forced myself, to kill time, to put on my lingerie outfit and read and write in this little journal. Now I'm totally enthralled again. And I love it. I am again reminded of the need to acquire more of a wardrobe. I will do it, eventually. I swear it. A bikini first. Then maybe some new panties, white this time, and possibly my own bra. Then I'll need black fishnets and a really nice teddy. And there'll be more. I know it. And I'm glad.
Another thing I thought about is my captivity narrative's possibilities. Imagine every possible scenario of a man like myself (let's just say myself, so that I can savour every moment of this) being captured and faced with wearing women's clothing. There are several possibilities underlying the entire theme to begin with, which deal with my previous experiences as a transvestite. I could either
- have never even imagined wearing girls' clothes, much less done it.
- have never worn women's clothes, but have guiltily and secretly fantasized about it on occasion.
- have guiltily worn women's clothes on a bet, or as a quick little experiment, but never gone through with the full experience of wearing it for complete sexual gratification
- have guiltily worn women's clothing secretly and ashamedly, for sexual gratification
- have shamelessly worn girls' clothes for sexual fun in secret.
- be a totally unashamed transvestite.
Then there's the rest, all of which are pretty interesting.
The scenario, by the way is this: I am captured, and stripped down. A girl cajoles me about putting on her panties.
In all five cases, I can react in three ways:
- I furiously refuse all attempts to get me to put them on, cajoling included.
- I at first refuse, but after some cajoling agree to put them on
- I put them on right away, no questions asked.
Imagine the first case: I have never experienced girls' clothes before, or even imagined wearing any before, and suddenly, I am exposed to the possibility. I consider it absurd, and react in any of the three ways mentioned above. First, I could humour her, and step into them innocently, because I'm not afraid. Otherwise, I consider it ridiculous, and outright refuse to even humour her. She laughs at me, and asks me if I feel so insecure as a man that I wouldn't be caught dead in women's underwear. I can either give in at this point and put them on to prove to her that I am not afraid of compromising my masculinity. Or I can continue to refuse, for ever. Then she forces me to wear them somehow.
Just imagine the result of this: for 1-3, the experience would be an instant shock. I slip into the panties unknowingly, and instantly surprise myself by popping the most insane boner ever. I discover the secret of femininity, and I can react either with self-loathing or with blind abandon. For 1-1, I am forced into the panties, and to my shame, instantly show my pleasure. She shows me that I am compromising my masculinity, and I can't do anything about it, because I'm being forced. I think I must of necessity become self-loathing in this case. For 1-2, I discover, for the first time, the wonder of girlishness, and am probably ashamed at showing such pleasure. A guilty but willing newcomer to transsexuality.
Now, in the second case, the results must be more positive. 2-1 must grudgingly admit my secret but never acted upon fantasy, and understand its fantastic appeal. 2-2 would be an intense discovery, of the type that I discover unexpectedly what I had been missing by cowardishly refusing to act out my fantasy. 2-3 would be an impulsive experiment, and monumental surprise and acceptance of a new way of dressing, shocked by failing a test of masculinity
3 would be somewhat similar, but a different degree of positivity again. 3-1 would be a stage of self-denial before finally accepting with violent shame that I have always wanted to do this, and have come close to trying, but never acted it out to the end. 3-2 would be a grudging self-denial again, trying to prove to myself that I can wear this without embarrassing myself: I would try gallantly to prove my manhood, not only to myself, but to the girl pushing her panties on me, and fail most ignominously. And I would grudgingly accept my failure. 3-3 would be an impulsive grasp at an opportunity to discover femininity. Or maybe I exaggerate a bit. Certainly, there would be an element of defiance, much as in 3-2.
4 would be close to my own experience. 4-1 Refusing would be a prolongation of the agony of self-denial. The girl would certainly discover my secret, and notice that I look much too comfortable in panties to have never enjoyed them before. She would get me to confess, and surrender to her wardrobe. I would eventually be the happier for it. 4-2 would be much like 3-2, a test of my resolve, but I would be much more certain to lose, and give in to my guilty pleasures, and soon accept my lot. 4-3 would be a complete surrender to girlishness, such as I experienced when I decided to take Mom's flowery purplish swimsuit and to stop denying my femininity. It would be a wholesale acceptance of girlishness, a joyous leap into the freedom of silks and lace.
5 would be interesting. 5-1 would be a curious option, considering the stage of femininity. What would I do? What would make me refuse? A stubborn denial, not to the self, but to the world, that I have a strong craving for the feminine. Once forced, I would instantly give in, and gladly. 5-2 would be more like a game. I would pretend to be masculine, or to care about my masculinity, and then snap them on gleefully and become girlish on the spot. 5-3, of course, would be a complete acceptance of my coming out. A graceful coming out of the closet.
The options that appeal to me most right now are the ones where I either discover for the first time the intense pleasures involved in dressing up in girls' undies, and my subsequent discovery of a new universe and a new sexual identity, or my giving in to secret desires at last, and feeling an incredible relief. At any rate, I just love to think of the psychological implications of any of these choices. I am going to go fantasize about them all now.
Was it last time that I swore to sleep in lingerie or something for an entire night? Well, it seems like a long time. I might not even have sworn it here. At any rate, I tried to do it, and it was impossible. I couldn't sleep, because I was perpetually horny. My penis hurt from overuse. I spewed at least twice, but couldn't even handle another boner after that. I just couldn't do it anymore. So I bailed. I'll try it again someday with something more tame.
I don't think I'll have anything new to report next time, but I know it'll be fun again. It always is when I surrender my masculinity.
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