Mother, it's been twelve weeks since my last confession.
I've been a bad girl. I only sparingly used my precious ressources. In fact, I have only rarely been overwhelmingly inclined to dress myself up and thoroughly effeminate myself. I have sinned severely.
Around the time of my last confession, I started consorting with a true female. She has distracted me from my passionate transformations. She gives me pleasure from the other side of the coin. I must admit, the last time I came, it was probably the most intense sexual experience in some ways which I ever experienced. I felt for a long while, while I humped her, like I was stoned. I was dreaming or hallucinating as I rubbed up against her. I seldom have so much energy. I was amazed. But I must admit, the thrill of femininity is far more exciting, if not quite as satisfying. I think I know why, too.
When I screw around with real girls, I feel masculine. There's nothing naughty about feeling masculine. I'm just rubbing up against her gloriously feminine perfection. In a way, big deal. All men are supposed to do that. So when I'm finished, I'm done for a good long while. I might go again very soon, but it's not so satisfying anymore. When I put on the silks and lace, however, and really make myself feel girlish, I don't want to stop. I want to continue all night. But I settle for the initial satisfaction most of the time. Usually, when I come, I still have a boner. In the process of removing whatever article of clothing which fuels my pleasure, I remember how naughty, how utterly damnable, my vice truly is; and this makes me want to commit it again. I'm only temporarily satisfied. I always force myself to put it away, because it's too risky to wait to refuel. I could fall asleep, and get caught wearing a garter belt and a satin teddy, which would be unacceptable. As much as I relish wearing girls' underwear, I don't want anyone to know. In my case, I'm not just wearing women's clothing; I'm not just wearing women't underwear; I WEAR LINGERIE. I own and frequently wear fishnet thigh-high stockings, which hook onto a garter belt; that done, I slip into a satin slip which creeps up my ass, and which has a tight little elastic around the waist. It's white and frilly and lacy and soft. It feels so feminine. I need more lingerie, though. I am already confounded with choices when I dig into my hiding spot for my lingerie, considering that I also own little satin panties and a one-piece swimsuit. I need something that better contours the body, and which has the garters attached to it. I also need a bikini swimsuit. Desperately. But all of this is just a pleasant digression.
The point I was making was that I have discovered why lingerie doesn't satisfy me as much as actual sex. It's quite simple: as a fetish, it arouses me more than simple sex can; therefore, it never ceases to excite me, even after having spent all of my energy on attempting to satisfy it. It is so incredibly gratifying to wear lingerie that I never feel satisfied. Never. This means that wearing lingerie is my ultimate sexual experience. I never want to stop. Often, when I slip into my lingerie, or my panties, I swear that I will go to sleep in them. The night I sleep in nothing but women's clothing will be the night that I become a complete girl. I swear that I will do it tonight. I don't care about the risks right now, while so engrossed in the possibilities. Needless to say, I'm wearing my lingerie right now, underneath my men's clothes. I dare not expose my girlishness except in my room. Although only a few weeks ago, I ran around the house wearing only my lingerie looking for [my brother]'s [playing cards with page 3 girls on them], to compare underwear. I'm wearing the most intimately feminine of clothing! It blows my mind every time. I'm dressed not just like a girl, but like a very sexy girl. I'm wearing the ultimate in feminine clothing. Nothing is more feminine than this.
But why underwear? Why lingerie? I think it's because I want to make myself look as much like an essential girl as I can, and that involves covering my genitals in the same sorts of things that girls use to cover theirs. I always imagine myself to have a cunt under my lingerie, and that's what makes it so incredibly pleasant. Also, the silk and the satin and the lace feels so very nice against my crotch, especially when it's tight. The tightness really helps. It's the whole sensual experience I'm after: I want to feel like a girl, and I want my manhood to feel well-stimulated. Talk about contradictions! But it's true. I don't want to feel manly, and I think of my dick as a cunt. I totally effeminate. I move like a girl to feel good. I feel my clothes with my hands (how I wish there were no hair!) to remind myself of how feminine my clothes are, and how much of a girl I must be if I'm wearing the kinds of things that I'm feeling. Oh, a garter belt! Lace! Satin wrapped tightly around my dick! The high cut up the thigh! The snugness around the waist! Oh, how I love to wear lingerie!
It's pretty fun to sit here and write this, because it prolongs my agonizingly tantalizing effeminacy. The longer I think about it, the better. I remember now the time(s) I went to work wearing the satin panties and/or the pantyhose under my uniform. How risque! What's to stop me from wearing my lingerie to bed? I don't want to make a mess, for one thing. I don't want to get caught for another. But as for the latter, wasn't wearing it to work a much larger risk? As for the former, there's nothing that a good pile of Kleenex won't fix. I'm just afraid. My biggest fear is that A__ [my new girlfriend] finds my stash someday, or worse yet, catches me in the act. I can only dream that she fantasizes about me wearing her underwear. I can never let any woman know. Except maybe a prostitute who specializes in "forced feminizations," as I once noticed in [a local weekly newspaper's racy classifieds]. I doubt that it would be that stimulating. But why not try it someday? It might be pretty fun, I think, to just try. I'd put on something sexy, and she would keep on whatever sexiness she has on, and we could hump each other. I wonder if I would feel more inclined to fuck, though? It's very hard to say. I might be too shy to actually put it on in front of her, or I could conquer my embarrassment by thinking in manly terms that not even this can put a dent in my masculinity. The key, of course, would be to totally surrender myself to femininity. Oh, how it appeals to me! I can't picture myself right now doing anything sexually with the woman if we were both wearing sexy lingerie. I'd probably just do myself. But I'm sure she could help. Anyway, that's not the point.
Someday, I want to have a closet full of women's clothing, particularly lingerie, from which I can choose. Any whim I might have for texture or material could be answered immediately. For example, swimsuits have always caused me problems. I never should have chucked the green and blue bikini. It was sheer heaven! As was mom's white one piece. But I caved into my guilt, and lost out. One day, I'll reacquire something as good. The swimsuit I have simply won't do. It's nice and tight and high cut, but it's just not silky enough. I need the good old lycra or spandex swimsuit. A nice thin one. Oh, Goddess, how I used to enjoy those! Just think of my innocence back then! I would wear pantyhose or swimsuits with my own underwear beneath, for fear of nasty consequences. Imagine, I might enjoy it so much that I'll start wearing it all the time! Imagine if I dared to wear it without protection, I'd be helpless against wearing it again and again, until I start wearing only women's clothes. People would call me a fag!
Oh, my heart palpitates as I think of it! It's like I'm in love, and I'm all nervous. But just think! I was so afraid that I would become some kind of transvestite or something! I knew that normal men don't wear girls' clothes. I thought I must be some kind of weirdo. I thought this must be how fags start. Then they turn into women, because they don't stop themselves. So I would think about it, get REALLY horny, and after much painful deliberation, guiltily steal into mom's bedroom, and "borrow" some pantyhose, or her bathing suit. I would never dare put it on naked. That would damn me forever! I would never be able to resist it! But I gave in so often, that I had to dare. I had to take that huge step, because I was always giving in to my urges. There I had the opportunity to explore what would happen if I did indeed go naked into it; I could find out how disastrous it would be. I felt much as I do at this very moment: I shook with nervous anticipation each time. So I finally dared, it must have been with pantihose first. I think I still refused to go all the way with a swimsuit. It was just too sexy.
So I dared to go naked. Imagine the consequences of a boy in girls' clothes! But how pleasant it was. It was so much better than when I kept a hold of my masculinity. I surrendered, but not completely, as the swimsuit indicates. I felt so guilty about it, too. And one day, I finally gave in, and went with the swimsuit naked, and probably had the biggest orgasm of my life. I'm shaking like a leaf as I recall. How afraid I was that I would turn into a girl when I wore those clothes! I feared so much that I trembled as I slipped into pantyhose or swimsuit naked, slowly giving up more and more ground until I kept them both. I must have started experimenting with mom's panties and bras at this time. A boy going as far as wearing women's underwear! And boy did my fears ever come through! I wore something feminine almost every night, and thoroughly enjoyed myself. I had a growing collection. I longed for more. I didn't care anymore that I was effeminating. I loved the feeling of it. I wanted to do it all the time. Months of this passed, and I got more and more daring. My obsession finally made me go as far as stealing a bikini. One that I wish I still owned. Just think, I was wearing a bikini! And not long before, I didn't dare put on pantihose without my underwear to protect me from the onslaught of femininity! I was completely gone. I had become a compulsive transvestite.
So here I am, fully content that my boyhood fears that I would become some kind of girlish weirdo have come gloriously true. I was always so afraid of eventually being a slave to my passions, so I resisted them as much as I could. But they proved stronger than me. Now, I'm the proud owner of lingerie, which I wear to my delight, but not quite as often as I feared when I was a boy. Unfortunately. I'm totally certain that my thrill in slowly getting to the point where I could wear nothing but girls' clothes came mostly form my fear being, in actual fact, earnest hope. I feared my desire to become feminine. The thrill, however, isn't gone now that I no longer fear. Or do I? I guess I still do. I'm just not guilty about it anymore. It's a good thing. I wouldn't want to lose my collection!