I thought this was pretty good before. I guess I'm just not in the mood right now. Or maybe I need to elaborate on something here.
It's a matter of discovery and of choice. It's a matter of breaking down the barriers between the genders. It's a matter of accepting a difficult but undeniable truth. How can any man not feel the appeal of wearing women's underwear? It's just so easy. All you have to do is slip it on, and then you'll understand that your fears, which you had always suspected might be unfounded, are based in a social need to rigidly define the male gender. But if you put on panties and a bra, you will understand that your masculinity is indeed in doubt. You will understand that your masculinity is very fragile, and that you have just foolishly damaged it by foolishly asserting it. I'm a big strong brave man. I'm comfortable in my sexuality. Nothing can shake my manhood. Here, I'll prove it to you: I'll wear these frilly little panties. Watch as they disintegrate at the merest contact with my humungous balls. But it's a different story. They sustain whatever your balls can dish out. It's your balls that wither, as you realize subconsciously that the panties fit much better than your own underwear. The panties caress your genitals gently, with soft but powerful silks. Even your big powerful penis looks pretty and dainty adorned with lace and ribbons and bows and flowers. And the panties are nice and snug. It's at that moment that you realize that you've made a mistake; or maybe you don't realize it. Maybe you store that information away subconsciously, so that it gnaws at your mind until you realize that you need more. Until you realize that you want to feel those snug and soft little panties on your big manly balls again. It's a big test of your testes, you think; I'm so comfortable in my sexuality that I can comfortably wear panties, and not worry at all about their effect on me. I'll wear them whenever I feel like it, because I'm man enough to dress like a woman. You find yourself doing it all the time now. You feel much more comfortable in women's panties. You feel sexy, but not in the same way as you were once used to. You feel delicate, and soft, and very, very hot. You feel like you can conquer the world, but not with muscle or bravado; you feel that you can shake your sexy little butt in any man's face, and get him to lick your feet. You feel like looking at yourself, and you want to see a girl in your place. You feel feminine, and you like it. You don't know what it is, but you definitely like it. And you start rubbing your prick up and down, and come all over yourself and all over your girlish panties. Then you feel shame. Gone is your feeling of bravado, of confidence. Now you feel like a dirty dishrag. Now you feel like you've done something wrong. You peel off the panties with guilt. You can't understand what came over you. You can't understand why you just lost control. You hide the evidence. You vow never to touch panties again. You deny to yourself that they have affected your sexuality. It was an isolated incident of perversion, and you'll never let it happen to you again.
Then later, when you've recharged, maybe days later, maybe weeks, maybe months, maybe years, you remember wearing women's underwear. And you become aroused. And you deny it to yourself. And every mention of women's underwear, any sighting, any contact you make with women's underwear makes you sweat and shake and desire. You don't want what's in the panties anymore. You do want it, but not as much as you want the panties themselves. You want to be in the panties yourself, literally. And you succumb. You find some somehow. You steal them. You "borrow" them from your wife, your mother, your girlfriend, your sister. And you enjoy being inside them. You enjoy that feeling of abject femininity. And you recognize it as such. You know that you want to be like a girl when you wear those panties. You no longer have any desire to prove your manhood by wearing panties. You consciously assert your womanhood instead. You repeat the process of pleasure, climax, and shame, and denial, and abstinence for a long, long time. You continually return to it, compulsively. Like a drug addict. Your scenarios always involve the voluntary surrender of your masculinity. Of course, your scenarios always involve force; you would never agree to surrender your masculinity without the threat of force, or without being under some irresistible influence, or without being out of your mind. But the pleasure comes from your willingness to succumb to femininity. You might resist at first, both in your fantasies and in real life, but you eventually give in, and feel the most incredible sexual thrills of your entire life. Think about how your fantasies mirror your real life: in reality, you resist at all costs returning to your secret passion. You don't want to think about it. You don't want to do it anymore. It's too dirty, it's too strange, it's too perverted. A million things tell you not to do it. It's morally wrong, somehow. It's not right. You're not a woman, you're a man, and you should dress accordingly; and if you don't dress accordingly, you shouldn't enjoy it. But an irrisistible force keeps controlling your actions. You resist as much as you can the temptation to sneak into a woman's dresser and pick a choice piece of lingerie. Your whole body shakes as you tiptoe over to it. Your hands shake and your brow sweats as you rummage through that Edenic drawer where the panties are, and select your treat. Those, you imagine, must be the effects of your will trying to fight back against an external force controlling your mind. But you sneak out of there, panties stuffed discreetly into your pants, and you stash them in your room, for later. Or you go to the bathroom, and immediately try them on. And keep them on until it's time to pleasure yourself. And then you allow yourself the pleasure. Then you finish, feel shame, and plan the safe return of the panties to their place of origin, vowing to never succumb again. Your fantasies have the same theme of resistance and inevitable surrender into guilty bliss. You imagine being captured by beautiful, scantily clad women, who have you under their power. They admire your masculinity. You are the paragon of maleness. But they will not allow you to remain so. They want to destroy masculinity, which you represent. They force you or trick you into slipping on their lingerie and masturbating in front of them. You know that showing pleasure for this would be the ultimate in shame, but at the same time the ultimate in pleasure. You try as hard as you can to humble the Amazon women. But you are seduced. You can't help but feel the pleasure, and you know what you are surrendering. The surrender is the best part. You acknowledge that they are your masters when you allow yourself to feel the pleasure. And do you ever feel the pleasure. You collapse at their feet, licking them clean because of the sheer intensity of the experience. You are enslaved to them, and you willingly discard any male clothing you might have in favour of the lingerie they give you. You succumb fully, completely. You know that you can never turn back, that your masculinity is gone forever. And you celebrate. Without shame, and without guilt, you celebrate your rejection of masculinity in favour of femininity. But you suddenly climax, and your masculinity returns, just as it shrinks. You are ashamed of your betrayal of your sexuality. Your fantasy is over. But look at the affinities: you feel an irresistible force that makes you act against your will; you are placed in a position where you have an opportunity to betray your allies, all the men in the world, for the pleasure of femininity; you betray them, and become forever female, and you would repeat that choice every single time. There are three levels here: fantasy, reality, and subconscious. In fantasy, you are imagining it in the terms described above: you are forced into a choice to become female, at the cost of all manhood, and choose femininity. In reality, your sexual desires force you to make a choice between manhood and femininity, represented by the panties, the inmost layer of women's clothing and identity (only girls wear things like that); you decide to betray male social mores and distinctions of gender, which tell you that only girls wear that, and say, so be it, I will be a girl then. Subconsciously, you are forced to give in to your sexual needs, as represented by females, as represented by, of all things, their underwear; you surrender your sexual identity in order to fulfill your sexual needs. In each scenario, you take great relish in becoming feminine, until it's all over and you realize what you've done. In the fantasy, you've betrayed all men to your fate, because they all looked up to you; your fall into girlhood spells the fall of manhood forever, and all men will now aspire to womanhood like you; you have tainted all manhood, even destroyed it. In reality, you have betrayed your sexuality: no one will respect you if he or she knows that you like to dress like a girl; you have thus betrayed your identity, and your own received ideal about masculinity; you have tainted your own manhood, even destroyed it. In the subconscious, you have betrayed decorum, or social good, for your own selfish needs; you have tainted your image in society, even destroyed it. But there eventually comes a turning point, when all of this changes slightly, for better or for worse I cannot say. Now I assert my betrayal proudly. How has this happened? It's all in the subconscious. Years and years of constant effeminizing has perhaps determined the course of my identity; or perhaps my initial fears are so justified that I should be frightened. But instead, I am impishly overjoyed that my initial fears were so justified. The fantasies are pretty much the same. The reality and the subconscious are different. Still, I fantasize of being captured by amazon women, who force me to wear their clothes; but now I succumb immediately, and become one of them sooner. I suppose I did even then, though. The fantasies are exactly the same. I fail the test of loyalty. But there is one slight difference: I feel no more loyalty. I have not betrayed all men; I have saved them from manhood. I have enlightened them. I have shown them that femininity is stronger than masculinity, and that they might as well give up now, and understand. In reality, I secretly keep women's clothes in my closet, which I use at my own discretion. They are stolen and bought. They are mine now. Strictly mine. I feel no urge to throw them away in disgust as a firm denial of my passion, as I have done foolishly so many times in the past. Now I guard my femininity fiercely. In reality, I don't need to steal anymore. I have what I need. I don't have any resistance. I willingly effeminate myself, and feel not a whit of shame afterwards. Sometimes I feel regret that it could not last any longer. In reality, I no longer feel ashamed for betraying my sexuality; I feel that I am affirming my sexuality as a wanna-be female. I think of myself as a girl when I dress up, and sometimes even when I'm not doing it. There is no more shame to be felt, because I am not betraying anything. To Hell with masculinity. I was never really male to begin with. I was a double agent. The change comes on the subconscious level of identity: there may once have been a strong need to combat my sexual needs, but now I gladly give them free rein. They are in control. Like the girls in the fantasy. I have completely given myself over to them by wearing their clothes so many times. My masculinity is not totally gone, but it's almost gone. I still look like a man, but I want to be a woman. I have made that first transition into femininity. The fear, I realize, was justified. Wearing women's clothing did make me less masculine. It did make me want to become female. And that was part of the thrill of it to begin with: testing my masculinity against those fears of losing it. I have played with fire so much that I have become what I feared I would become. I resisted coming back to the girl's dresser because I knew that it would make me more female. And it did. Look at me. I wear women's underwear, and I feel no shame about it. I wear it often. I feared that returning again and again would only make it worse. Only be resisting could I ever shake femininity. But I was never man enough. The point of no return was that very first time. That was it. There was no serious resisting. So I say to all men: you're right; if you wear women's clothing, even if you don't do it deliberately, you will forever compromise your manhood. It doesn't matter if no one ever saw you. You know you did it, and you'll never forget it. And sooner or later, you'll do it again. And you'll do again after that. And then you won't be able to stop, and you'll be wearing it all the time, and you won't be a man anymore at all. My advice to you is this: sneak into your wife's, or your mother's, or your sister's, or your girlfriend's dresser. Pick out the prettiest, sexiest panties you can find. And when you're all alone, and have lots of time to yourself, slip them on. Oh, you'll hate me for the next ten or fifteen years, until you finally accept that you're a sissy, and that you're proud of it, and you'll want to thank me. But you won't do it. You're chicken. You're not a man if you don't do it, and you're not a man if you do do it. You can't win. You'll lose eventually, and you'll like it. A lot.
Right now, I'm wondering if there's maybe a third stage to this. I hope there is sometimes. It would take another giant shift in identity, which I often think I would love to make. Right now I'm a closet girl. I never go all the way, and I can't. But I would love to. I would love to shave off all my body hair (purge it entirely, forever) grow breasts, shrink my waist, and dress completely like a woman. Be a woman for at least a week or so. Change my wardrobe permanently to female clothing. The first stage is that of denial. The second stage is that of acceptance, but to a limit. The third stage is that of full blown immersion. The fourth is physical girlhood. I'm in the second stage. I could have been close to the third at one time, but I'm not sure. I would have gone up north, alone, and anonymously, and been a girl for a while, until my body hair grew back. I would have worn only women's underwear, nightwear, and skirts and blouses and makeup all day. I would have lived like a girl, and enjoyed it thoroughly day and night for at least a week. It really appeals to me to dump this existence and become a girl. But at this stage, it won't happen. I'm content with a heterosexual relationship and a good diversionary dressup in between sex. The ultimate would be to have my girlfriend find out and accept, and nurture my femininity. She would be my tutor. And I would be her girlfriend and boyfriend at the same time. But that won't happen. It happens to some people, but I don't really think I want it to happen. I'm not ready for that. I'm content being a secret girl.
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