Thursday, January 16, 1997

Diary: Deep Thoughts About Why

Now, for the third consecutive night, I feel the need to explain myself.  Tonight I have a one-piece swimsuit on under my regular clothes.  I have a little secret.  I'm like a girl in that on the inmost layer, on the layer that really counts, much more than any other, I am a girl.  If I wore a skirt or a dress and pantihose and heels, but retained my own underwear, in a way I would maintain my masculinity.  But no, I wear female inner layers.  Because psychologically, I am a girl inside, and a boy outside.  The only thing that keeps me heterosexual is my love for femininity.

Of course that's bullshit.  I'm not really like that.  It's the fantasy talking.  In reality, I find it kinky to wear women's underwear underneath my regular clothes.  Nobody's the wiser.  And I get my thrill.  What woman wears a bathing suit under her clothes unless she's on her way to the beach?  Psychologically, I'm totally heterosexual.  If anything, my wearing of women's clothes comes from my heterosexual lust for femininity.  I love women and their bodies so much that I want to be one.

But I don't know if that's quite right.  In one of those cheesy stories I read on the internet, the late bloomer discovers women's underwear, and becomes almost a fashion consultant, he knows his panties so well.  It's absurd.  And to top it off, he is gay, and becomes a girl at the end.  I don't wear panties because I think they're pretty, although that has a lot to do with it.  I wear panties because they make me feel sexy.  I wear panties because I associate them with femininity.  I have worn ugly underwear, and gotten a huge thrill out of it because it belongs on a female body.  I used to wear nothing but pantihose.  I was afraid to go any further, but content that they were feminine enough.  Of course, I couldn't help but experiment with more hard-core things, but I started with pantihose.

It's interesting that I did, actually.  It was the first thing I ever wore.  I was too young to get the idea that it was wrong for me to want to wear them, but I did think of them sexually.  I knew since I was three how to masturbate.  And it always had something to do with girls.  When I wore the pantihose in kindergarten for that school pantomime, I knew that boys weren't supposed to wear it.  All of us knew.  But we had no choice.  I liked the feeling of wearing them.  I felt good in them.  So nice and snug and soft.  But I didn't touch them again after that for years.

Then when I began to fantasize about girls, and masturbate more frequently, without female clothing, of course, I began to imagine being dominated.  And eventually about being forced to wear their clothing.  I suppose that I remembered something from my past, and I wanted to repeat it.  I can't recall at all the first time I stole some pantihose.  Not at all.  I must have taken it when no one was looking from the dirty clothes hamper.  I know that I did.  I might not even have dared to wear it right away, but I'm quite sure that I must have wanted to.  I was interested only in pantihose at that point, I think.  It was like a female skin to put on my legs.  And groin.  I can't recall if I stayed away from underwear and bathing suits because they were too intense, or if I didn't really think about them at all.  A difficult situation, to not be certain how it started.  I must have fantasized about bathing suits, because to me they were the sexiest thing on earth.  But I didn't touch them.  I only touched pantihose, and enjoyed it tremendously, even at first when I didn't even remove my own underwear first.

It's starting to come back to me, I think.  I used to roll up my own underwear and make it sexy, like a bikini or lingerie.  So I certainly did think of underwear.  I must have fantasized about it, even before I dared to steal pantyhose.  I must have noticed that pulling up my underwear made me feel good, and that when I thought dirty things, I thought of being dominated and forced into panties.  I must have consciously tried to fashion a sort of female panty out of my own panties.  I used to have a shirt that was too large for me, and I stretched it down past my crotch and pinned it together there, and fantasized about it being a bathing suit.  Yes, this must have been long before I ever wore anything female.  So I fantasized about it all.

So one day, I must have screwed up the courage to steal pantihose.  I must have figured that I could get away with it easily, that it's abundant enough that no one would ever notice if it were missing.  And that's how it started.  Pantihose.  I know for a fact that I yearned for it as much as I now yearn for panties and lingerie.  I know that I sweated as I stole it.  And I know that it was one of the most fantastic experiences of my young life to that point.  I still can't figure out if I stole pantihose because I wanted pantihose, or because I didn't dare go further than that on the first try.  I must have wanted panties.  I probably didn't bother because of my mom's ugly panties.  Or I was intimidated by their being in contact with an unknown quantity: the cunt.  I was afraid of it, and thought it was gross.

So that's how I started.  And I probably constructed this heirarchy of wearing only pantihose first, about a hundred times, before going on to bathing suits or leotards, and so on, because I was afraid of going too far too soon.  I was afraid that it would make me a pervert for women's clothing forever, and to such an incurable degree that I would wear it all the time.  That was a real fear.  The fantasy, of course, insisted that this was a great idea.  But I couldn't let my fantasies get the better of me that early in the game.  It truly worried me that I would become some kind of freak, that my desires would get out of control.  And, of course, they did.  And I couldn't stop myself from experimenting further, and more often, with various articles of women's clothing.
I suppose I was right.  I wonder what would have become of my fetish for women's clothing if I had held fast to my morals and refused to wear any clothing again, because it was just too weird.  Would I ever have shaken it?  I'll never know.  Right now, I'm glad I didn't stick to it.  I'm glad I did become a faggotty transvestite as I feared.  I could only control the degree of my sinning, but not the sinning itself.  I could contain myself from wearing a bathing suit too often, but not from wearing something, or at least fantasizing about it, quite often.

So here I am in a female bathing suit, liking it.  That's what I came here for.  Not to describe my transformation into this effeminate wanna-be, but to describe what the appeal is.  I don't think I've ever quite hit on it.  I always go right to the psychological stuff, and skip the aesthetic appeal.

That's the problem with these accounts.  It's always a matter of succumbing to the temptation, but without ever explaining what is so tempting about it.  So why would I want to wear women's clothing when the women force me to?  Why would I enjoy it?  Why would I suddenly decide that this isn't so bad, it's quite good, when I so strongly resist the idea to begin with?  It's not just a betrayal, it's an aesthetic choice.  That's it!  That's what's wrong with my stories.  I must take it for granted, the appeal.  I always "suddenly realize" and turn the leaf into a raving trannie.  

It's so simple.  The desire to be feminine lies at the centre of it, and I think I might have either overblown that desire, or over-emphasized the fact that I am a man, and that I am not allowed to desire femininity.  I have made too much of the gender dynamic.  I have not made enough of the choice involved.  I should stop delaying this and get right down to it.

It was always shame in those stories when the girls first saw me in my female underwear.  They shouldn't force me, though.  That's where I went wrong.  I should have begged them for their panties as soon as I was in their power.  Sure the discovery is fine, really fine, but I never put my finger on what it is.  It was always the simple discovery that it felt exquisite to wear panties.  But why, at last, why, did I ever wear those panties?  Often, in some stories, I decide to try them on just on a whim, without the slightest clue about their appeal.  The discovery always came with wearing them repeatedly.  But it's much more than that.  It's an innate desire, before ever trying them on.  The story on the internet about the guy disguising himself as a woman, except for the underwear, to live with girls, who suddenly discovers that he likes being a girl when forced by necessity to wear the clothes, misses the point: he should have wanted secretly to do it for a long time.  He should have been hanging on to his jockeys just for show.  It would have occurred to him for sure to try on panties, and go all the way for once, just because that's how it must be if he is ever to discover the pleasure.  The little late bloomer who discovers his stepmother's panties as sexual toys does get the point.  It's all about associating the panties with sex, and then with associating sex with the panties.  No, check that.  It's all about how the boy conceptualizes the appeal of women, or how women appeal to him.  The great story about Kim gradually becoming accustomed to wearing women's underwear is extremely appealing, despite its missing the point.  All it does is fulfill the ultimate fantasy of discovery: that of being forced and gradually understanding the importance of wearing women's clothing.  He never gets a sexual thrill out of wearing lingerie.  He does it because he is told to, and becomes female because he is told to.  He never tries to do it all on his own.


This is the trick: girls are appealing.  Why are they appealing?  They have curves.  They have soft, clear, hairless skin.  They have long, slender limbs.  The curves, however, define their sex appeal.  If a girl has disproportionate tits, or ass, or waist, she is not considered beautiful.  She could be pretty, but if she lacks the proper proportion, she is not sexy.  Think of C__, M__s ex-girlfriend.  She was gorgeous, but never appealed to me sexually, because she had the waist of a man.  She lacked the crucial ratio of hips-to-waist.  I forget what it is.  70%?  I don't know.  Something like that.  Anyway, the facial features count, too, but it's the body that really defines sex appeal.  Demi Moore's tits are too small for her to be very sexy.  And tits don't even appeal to me as much as waist, legs, hips, and ass.

That's the key.  I stared for so long at those lingerie adds I downloaded.  Why?  Because the lingerie accentuates the women's incredibly fine features.  They had absolutely perfect bodies.  The lingerie made their bodies even more perfect.  My attraction to the women was almost entirely determined (relative to other pictures of them) by what they wore in that particular photo.  Good lingerie or swimwear accentuates the very parts that make women sexy: the crotch, by hugging it snugly and overtly, and by making the legs high-cut to make it stick out even more.  The higher the cut, the sexier the underwear.  Decoration also helps, such as lace, and soft silks, and ribbons and flowers that make it seem even more feminine.  The belly, then, is next.  It's right above the crotch, and it's beautifully curved.  A thin band around the waist, a thin, delicate band around the waist is best.  It shows off more skin, and more leg, and more belly.  And it accentuates the waist, either by resting in that gorgeous soft curve, or by resting below it and showing clearly how small the waist is.  Then there's the thighs: look how garter belts girt the wonderful waist, and the garters themselves hang down halfway to the thigh.  The thigh is connected to the crotch.  Then the tits.  The breasts and shoulders are decorated with lace and silk, too, that pushes up the tits, in a delicate band.  I love bras.  I love the tightness of them, the smoothness and silkiness of them.  I love the tightness of them.  Loose lingerie sucks.  It has much less appeal.  The bra that sticks to the sides, and makes it look like silk, is the best.


But I'm still not getting at the heart of the matter.  That's what makes a girl beautiful.  Her body.  But the clothes make her even sexier than if she were naked.  It's a fact, and if it weren't true, they wouldn't need to sell lingerie.  The trick is understanding that the underwear is sexy, too.  The trick is in admiring the female body, and feeling, like Keats suggests, a negative capability, or an ability to get out of one's own thoughts and into those of another.  The trick is in admiring how the lingerie caresses the ideal female body, as it is so often displayed in sexy pictures, movies, drawings, and even in reality, and while musing over the appeal of such a figure, fleshing the figure out in fantasy.  How must it feel to touch that body, how must it feel to touch the panties?  Then the great leap of imagination: How must it feel to be that body, and to be touched?  That's the first leap.  Then the rest is too easy.  That first leap itself is easy enough.  One imagines that touching a female body brings as much pleasure to the body being touched as the body touching, or else there would be no point at all to seduction.  One wants to seduce with pleasure, not anything else.  The fantasy reflects this desire for pleasure in the object of desire as well as one's own.  Men's egos live and die on men's abilities to satisfy women.  That is the key.  When one begins to wonder how the idealized female in lingerie physically feels, then there is nothing stopping rampant transvesticism.


Think about the next connection.  I know she's sexy.  I know she looks sexy.  I wonder what it would feel like for me to touch her.  I wonder what kind of pleasure she would feel if I touched her.  I wonder what she feels like, alone there, anticipating sex.  I wonder how what it feels like in those wicked panties.  That's when the association begins.  At that point, I am horny already.  Then I begin to think about how that beautiful body must feel in its trappings.  I begin to think about how I would love to caress those gentle curves, and put myself in the place of the underwear, which does caress those gentle curves.  I want to be the underwear.  Then I think about the underwear.  I want to feel what she feels.  I'm horny, and I want those curves.  I want them on my body, too.  I want to know how she physically feels, to have that silk around her crotch, that tight panty hugging her waist, that delicate lace all over her.  I want to feel those panties on my body.  I want to be her.  She looks so hot, so sexy, I want to wear what she's wearing.  I want to know what she knows.  I want to know how to please her, and for that I need to know what she knows, and for that I need to be her.  I need to wear what she wears.

I'm not sure if that's quite right.  It doesn't seem to be.  It's not it, either.  I've over-intellectualized it again.  I must get to the bottom of it, not rationalize it.

When I see a picture of a sexy girl in her lingerie or in her swimsuit or bikini, I drool over her body.  I love her body.  I look at her crotch, and her belly, and I want to look like her.  I want that crotch, in my pants.  It's irrational.  It defies rationalization.  I just want to have her body, not in the normal sense, but in the sense that I want to be just like her physically.  I want to feel that skimpy little outfit, the thin, delicate elastic around my waist, the tightness in the slim and soft crotch, the tightness around the breast.  I want to be female, like her.  I make her the object of my desire, but I also make her my idol.  I model myself on her.  I associate sensual pleasure with her body, with what she wears.  I want to feel her pleasure, too.  No, I'm rationalizing again.  I just want to feel her clothes on my body, my female body.  I always imagine that I am female when I wear women's clothes.  I want to feel female.  That's the bottom line.  I consciously want to feel like a girl.  Like a sexy girl.  I have this picture in my mind right now of a girl wearing a bathing suit under her jeans, and taking off her jeans to reveal what she has on underneath.  That's part of the thrill in the fact that I'm in that exact position right now.  I'm fantasizing that I am that girl, that I have the same stuff inside those jeans as she does.  I dream of the jeans hugging her waist, or rather, just dangling against that extreme aesthetic nadir of her soft waist.  I want to be soft and curvaceous, too.  I want my body shaven and hairless, too.  I want tits hanging off my chest, too.  I want all of those things.  And somehow, the clothing allows me to take on those characteristics.  I can become female when I wear that clothing, that under-clothing, because that's how women feel all the time.  They always wear this kind of clothing.  But that's not right, either.  It's simply in the picture of the girl.  I'm having such trouble getting it.

It's not turning me on, either.  I don't feel as horny as when I fantasize about the Kim story.  Not nearly.  It's something else.  It's being able to say, "I'm a girl, now."  That's what I'm saying now, as a matter of fact.  I'm a girl now, and I can prove it.  Look at my underwear.  Look at what I'm wearing.  That makes me a girl, doesn't it?

Eureka!(?)


The clothes make the girl.  That must be it.  It's the clothes.  It's as if a woman's body is shaped by the clothes she wears.  Think about it: how could she ever develop such a fine waist if her underwear didn't cut so high?  Or how could she get such a fine crotch if her panties didn't hug it so delicately, yet so firmly?  The delicateness of her panties makes her body become delicate.  She is hairless because of the lace trim on her bra.  She has breasts because flesh has filled out the cups in her bra.  How could she have developed such long, smooth, slender, curvaceous legs without pantihose to sculpt them?  I want to be a girl, too.  And that's why I wear women's clothing.  I want to develop my body just like girls have.

But I have just returned to the question that remains unanswered.  Why do I want to be a woman in the first place?

It's because I want to wear that underwear.  

But why do I want to wear women's underwear?

It's because I want to be a woman.

It's circular.  But it can't be.  There must be some reason, some association.  I feel that I am close to it, too.  It must have something to do with the ideal female body.  It is, after all, an ideal.  A very powerful one, too.  Why shouldn't I worship it to the point of wanting to emulate it?

But that's not quite it, is it?  Or am I denying it for some reason?  I worship women, therefore I want to be a woman.  I believe at some deep subconscious level that I can become a woman by wearing women's underwear.  I want to become a woman, therefore I wear women's underwear.  But there's something missing.  I'm grasping two horns of a dilemma here.  Which is it?  What comes first?  It must be the desire to be a woman.  I can't come up with an alternative.  Except that it doesn't gel with my desire to wear women's underwear.  

I associate lingerie with women and sex.  Or rather, I make sexual associations between lingerie and women.  But why want to be a woman at all?  Just to wear her underwear?

NO!

It's because, as I explained above, I love the female body.  I want to feel what she feels.  I want to know what it feels like to be a woman.  That's why I want to be a woman.  Because I want to please women, I suppose.  No, that's not quite it.  It's much more selfish than that.  It's all aesthetic: I want to feel like a woman, because she is the ultimate aesthetic experience.  Why shouldn't I want to be as beautiful as she is?  It's not beyond my grasp, is it?  I can't desire to be a sunny meadow in the spring.  But that's not as aesthetically pleasing, is it.  Here it is: I find all sorts of things aesthetically pleasing, and I want to be all of them.  I love cats, and I dream of being a cat.  I love hockey, and dream of being a hockey player.  I love good music, and I dream of expressing the same kind of good music; I want to be that music, I want to feel like that music must feel.  I like the feel of Tool's record art, as well as music.  I want to be inside their art, inside their expression, to re-express it.  Thus, I want to be woman, too.  Only she far outweighs any mere art in her appeal.  Her appeal is all sexual, when I think about it.  It's all related to sex.  I want to experience her, sexually.  The only way I can truly experience this feminine ideal is by becoming feminine myself.  Fucking wouldn't do it.  It would just complete the picture in my mind of the ideal female fulfilling her function.  No, I want to feel what her function is.  I want to get inside her like I would a piece of music, get to know how she works, how each line fits in with the next.  I want to know her from the inside; that's where the pleasure of performing a piece of music comes.  I need to reproduce the experience of the musical piece as best I can.  I need to reproduce the experience of the female as best I can.

Is that it?  Maybe.  It's such a quick leap of ideas.  One second I'm admiring the aesthetic qualities of woman, the next I'm living them.  It makes plenty of sense.  It's a hands-on view of art.  I need to be able to place myself in the work of art to truly experience it.  I need to reproduce it in some way.  I get a kick out of listening to Pearl Jam catch a groove, or to Beethoven's 5th, and I need to re-create that kick on my own terms, as accurately as possible.  Likewise, I see a film, or read a book that really tickles my fancy, and I want to produce something just like it.  I want to copy.  So when I see an idealized woman, in picture or in fantasy, I want to re-produce her on my own terms, too, and that involves becoming her.  That involves re-creating that intense sexual thrill of seeing her, and feeling a rush of testosterone and adrenaline, but nothing more.  I re-create that thrill by imagining myself as her, by wearing her clothes.  I play a female role, and it recalls for me the thrill of seeing her; plus I get the added thrill of the aesthetic pleasure of wearing tight, silky clothes.  Much of the kick I get out of wearing women's clothes comes from the knowledge that it's women's clothes, not just the way they feel on my body.  It just so happens that women's clothes feel fantastic on my body, as well as re-create the aesthetic thrill of watching sexy females in skimpy clothing.  That's why I wear women's clothes, and that's why I want to be a girl: because I want to experience the fullest thrill of seeing a beautiful, scantily clad woman.

I just fondled myself through my bathing suit, and realized that it must be more.  I think I know what it is too.  
I felt a self-consciousness of my masculinity being corrupted by the bathing suit.  And that has nothing at all to do with what I just described.  Or does it?  Perhaps the thrill of knowing that I am immersing myself so much in the aesthetic of girl makes it more intense.  But it should bring me back to earth, no?  Instead, it makes me that much hornier.  The thrill is in purging my masculinity for femininity.  I don't belong in a girl's bathing suit, and the knowledge that I am now in a girl's bathing suit makes me horny.

A possible solution might be that wearing women's clothing becomes an aesthetic experience all its own.  It follows its own logic.  It's playacting, imagining that my fantasy of transformation is coming true.  That must be it: knowing that I am not a girl makes me want to be a girl that much more.  No, that's wrong.  I desperately want to be a girl already.  Wearing the clothing brings me closer to being female.  It's what I described earlier: a betrayal of masculinity.  I know that I shouldn't be doing it, but I don't care.  Forbidden fruit tastes better.


Why can't I get this?  It's baffling.  Let's think about those stories.  Kim turns me on because he's becoming female slowly but surely, gradually, without even knowing it, just by wearing women's clothes and getting used to it.  He becomes female without noticing it.  He wears his wife's clothes and doesn't see anything wrong about it.  Eventually, he becomes a girl, fucking men.  That's extremely arousing, that he wears strictly female underwear, all the time, and that he will never wear anything else again.  He has become female, just by wearing women's clothes, just by force of habit.  It doesn't matter that he doesn't feel a thrill in wearing it.  It suffices that he wears it, and that he's not supposed to, socially speaking.  It's perfect because he gains acceptance as a woman among women.  I love the part where the secretary plays with his bra strap, and makes him self-conscious of his clothing.  He knows he's not socially determined to wear it, but he wears it anyway.  He is conscious of his femininity.  He has these moments of noticing, and they're the best parts.  He knows that he's becoming female, but he does nothing to stop it.  That's the great part of it.  The one about the late bloomer works when the kid starts hanging with the girls, and they get to make him into a girl.  It doesn't matter to me all that much when he sees his stepmom undressing, and hardly matters when he tries things on.  He goes too far, for some reason.  He gets a thrill out of wearing women's clothes, but he must be too true to life in some way.  He does knowingly become female, but it's not nearly as sexy.  It's not insidious enough, somehow.  What's wrong with it?  I don't know at all.  I suppose it's that he is not forced into subtle discovery or habit like Kim is.  I give up.  For now. . .

No comments: