Fiction: Professor of Women's Studies

No, that really sucks.  No suspense.  Here we go again.  We need a female coach:

It was the sexy professor S__ who suggested that he start wearing women's underwear.  She would supply him with his first pair.  She never got it back.

Months later, R__ asked for more.  She gave him another pair.  Then, a bit later, he asked for a brassiere.  S__ asked, so you think it's working, do you?  R__ enthusiastically agreed, feverishly awaiting his new set of underwear like a mad scientist or a drug addict.

When he came back for more, S__ decided to take him shopping.  They went to a lingerie store, pretending to be a couple, and they bought lingerie together.  R__ was somewhat sheepish, and insisted on her buying it, and he would pay her back.  S__ agreed.  But she couldn't believe that he was actually wearing it.

S__ thought that this was pretty funny.  She was a vamp, and she wanted to figure out how far R__ went.  She began to flirt with him, to see, possibly, if he really wore his feminine attire.  She fondled him in his office.  He liked it.  She would now discover.

But he was reluctant to get started right away, right there on his couch.  She goaded him on, and he timidly acquiesced, and stripped down to a sexy little black panty and bra outfit.  He looked ridiculous.  S__ laughed.

"You need training," she stated, and began to show him the ropes.

She showed him how to shave his legs.  He also had to shave his body.  He looked much better now.  And sexy, too.  She only changed him gradually.  He started out with just panties and bra, carefully shaving often enough to not get stubbly.  Then he began to wear pantyhose, and then garter belts and stockings, and then teddies and lingerie.  He wore only women's underwear now. 

When I discovered him again, he wore a skirt to work.  He was embarrassed.  But he'll get used to it.

It seems these stories only need to end when the hero decides to wear women's clothes only.

Diary: Psychologist's Personality Test (Bonus: Capitulation Scenario)

After a somewhat extended absence, I return to this pointless journal of my perversion.

What draws me back?  Sheer boredom.  I have nothing better to do to pass the time than to masturbate.  Isn't that disgusting?  I need to give myself a sexual thrill, so I come to the computer to remind me of my taste for lingerie, and to fuel my libido, and get me going.

I lack ideas.  Or I've become too self-conscious of wearing women's clothing.  It's a very strange thing to do, and I can't make it any more logical.  In a way, it doesn't even matter when I think about it: I'm just putting on clothes, like I would anyway.  It's just that the clothes I want to wear are designed for members of the opposite sex, designed to accentuate their sexiest features.  Why do I want to wear them?  Quite simply because it feels amazing.  But the thrill sometimes seems a bit less if I'm too indifferent about it.  The thrill comes from the fact that it is taboo, and I do it anyway.  It comes from the fact that I willingly forsake my masculinity for the pleasure that women's underwear gives me.

Here's another scenario, another repetition of the same old story.  I got the idea from a dream:


There's a psychologist (female) who interviews everybody.  She determines the sexual orientation of people by asking them to fill out a survey, or submit to an interview.  A__ [my girlfriend] went in and was confirmed 90% heterosexual, the most you can be.  Other friends and family end up in the ninety percent range.  The shrink's theory is that our identity stems from our sexuality.  Men act like men, and think in ways that women don't, and all because of their gender.  Hard to argue against it.  But she determines a person's sexuality by analyzing his or her personality.  She asks me questions, and I am determined to be brutally honest.  She hums and hahs throughout the questionaire, as if my responses are very interesting or significant.  I score in the 60% range, a borderline faggot.

I'm not shocked, but I find that I disagree with her assessment.  But not totally: I do admit to having homosexual fantasies once in a while.  So I now have this new awareness that I have a slightly feminine personality.

Not much of a scenario.  In fact, as in all dreams, the details are contradictory.  I remember answering proudly and honestly that I wear women's clothing quite often.  That's not a personality question.  But I think that that was the basis of her assessment.  It contributes to my femininity.  The funny thing is that it goes against all my theories about my scenario: it always, I thought, involves a super-masculine man abandoning his gender because of lingerie.  In this case, I was myself, and totally comfortable with the knowledge that I wear women's underwear, and having my femininity confirmed.  I woke up needing to masturbate, and imagining, as usual, wearing feminine panties, and even being female and getting fucked.

It's still the idea of metamorphosis, though.  I always loved that idea.  It turns me on.  Every time I encounter a metamorphosis in some work of art, like a film or a book, I think of how incredibly sexy that is.  I don't know exactly why.  But I imagine that the transformation is complete, and irreversible, and, no matter how hard I resist, welcome.  The trigger could be anything: a man turning into a zombie, or an insect, or a statue, or anything.  He resists the change, but in the end, totally becomes what he has tried to avoid becoming, although he is still recognizable, and becomes totally absorbed in his new identity.  

This is strikingly similar to my femininity scenario.  I stubbornly resist becoming a girl, but gradually, as I am exposed to lingerie, I become one, until I notice that there is no turning back.  No matter how I feel about it, it's done, and it's irreversible.

I suppose I could write a Poe-type horror story, with a first-person narrator who discovers one of his associates who had disappeared some time ago transformed into a demi-woman.  The elements of the story are clear:

1. Man asserts his identity confidently.  He combats the opposite state of his identity somehow.
2. Man, in combating his opposite, loses a bit of ground.
3. Man, in losing ground, slowly begins to abandon his identity, and slips into the thing that he hated.
4. Man discovers with surprise that he has begun to become what he hated, and that the he can still pull back.
5. Man does not pull back.
6. Man discovers, to his horror, that the trend is now irreversible, and that he is halfway to being the thing he hates.

It's like the captivity narratives of the Puritans.  The Puritans battle savages, are captured, and forced to act like them to survive; they at first resist, but vow to keep the fortitude of mind to remain civilized; they forget; they encounter another civilized person, and discover that they have become savage, too.

So here's how it happened:

I had lost contact with R__ several years ago.  I remember that he went to teach English at a Women's college.  He was such an anti-feminist, hating their rhetoric, that he wanted to instill a bit more balance in his female students' minds.

Soon I read some of his articles in the academic journals.  He was still vehemently anti-feminist.  He opposed writing about the feminine touch, rejected the notion that females write differently, and opposing the call for a feminist canon.  

Then I heard that they threatened to turn him away.  His articles softened a bit.  His fellow professors convinced him to reconsider his strong ideas.  They suggested that he try to imagine himself in a woman's shoes for once.

He genuinely tried.  He decided that to really understand women deep down, but at the same time maintain his masculine exterior, he would wear women's underwear.  He would be constantly reminded by the soft silk on his genitals that he should think like a woman; but no one would notice.

It worked quite well.  He maintained his own perspective, but allowed for a more feminine point of view.  His lectures were much more successful when he taught in women's underwear, and he wrote the best papers in secret drag.  But no one had to know what he was doing.

That's what he thought, anyway.

One day, as he was teaching, and thinking about the tight little silk and lace panties he had underneath his pants, he noticed that his manners were almost imperceptibly feminine.  A slight lisp here, a limp wrist there.  He began to worry.  But he could not give up his secret to success: the underwear.

But his papers were losing favour again.  He wore only women's underwear now.  And it worked temporarily.  But he had to do more.  He began wearing brassieres, as well.  He found himself shopping in the women's section of the local department store more than the men's section.  He wore lingerie under his suits.  He slept in sexy nightgowns to infuse his subconscious with femininity.  He kept his hair long, and began taking much better care of it.  But he always threatened to fall another step behind.  He decided to shave his legs.  Then his chest and belly, too.  He became proud of his ability to adapt to feminine thinking.


Still, no one knew about his little secret.  Until he was caught buying lingerie by one of his former collegues--me.  I thought it odd, and he was embarrassed.  He didn't know how to answer my questions.  I knew, as everyone did, that he was a bachelor.  

This is when he realized that he was becoming female, slowly but surely.  How could he explain that he wears lingerie over his shaven body, underneath his clothes, because he wants to gain a feminine perspective?  He couldn't tell anyone the truth.  It was absurd.

I thought nothing more of it, and left him there.  I only found out later, when I visited the college again three years later.

Professor R__ was the delight of his collegues and students.  He commanded much more respect than ever.  Everyone at the college appreciated his efforts at becoming more in tune with feminist thinking.  His attitude was obvious from the fact that he had begun to wear skirts to work.  He wore makeup.  I discovered when I met him again that his bust had expanded somewhat, and his voice had raised an octave.  He was by no means very feminine, but he tried to be.