OK, stop right there. This would probably work much better as a diary. A lab book. With daily entries chronicling my slow transformation into a woman. Yeah, that would really work well. Suspense, excitement. Another fantastic experiment every day. Always something new. Yes, that will work amazingly well.
Finally, a writing project, albeit one that I can never show anyone. Except those transsexual types on the internet, maybe; I can smoke any of them easily. I'm a much better writer. Anyway:
Sunday, January 1, 1998
I am so sick of stupid social rules. The most nefarious rules are those that no one notices. Why is it that people dress the way they do? It astounds me that men wear such obvious phallic symbols around their necks all day to gain the respect of their peers. And why is it that only women (and Scotsmen) wear skirts? I don't understand why society insists on differentiating the sexes by clothing.
But that's all been done and said before. Look at the multitudes of rock stars who occasionally wear dresses on stage to shock their audiences, for example. Drag is simple enough. But what about going deeper? I'll bet that no self-respecting man would dare to wear women's underwear. Sure, there's that Rocky Horror type craze, but none of those cult fans would ever dare actually do it. They wouldn't want to harm their manhood. As if women's underwear can somehow damage their sexuality.
I want to prove to the world that these conventions of clothing are totally arbitrary and off-base. Why is it that only women are allowed to wear frilly pink silky panties with flowers on them? Why is that considered feminine? Boxer shorts, by comparison, can hardly be considered underwear. Why this distinction? Is it an objectification of women?
Here's what I propose to do: I will get myself some women's underwear. And I will wear it. And I will let everyone on earth know that it has no adverse effect on my manhood. I will show them how irrelevant their little notions of gender really are. It's not the clothes that make the man.
January 2 1998
Alicia thinks it's a crazy idea for me to wear women's underwear. She tells me that I'm going too far, that she can't respect a man who tries to be feminine. I explained to her that I'm not trying to be feminine, that I'm trying to prove that my masculinity bursts through no matter what I wear; and furthermore, that that is the case for all of us. She seemed a bit skeptical, but I think I convinced her. I went so far as to show her. I stormed into the bedroom in mid argument, pulled a pair of her panties out of her dresser, dropped my pants, and put her panties on. I stormed around in front of her, and she laughed at me. She thought it was funny. I must admit, she's much smaller than I am, and I did look a bit funny. But the point was made. My dick stuck out, unrestrained by the negligeable cover afforded by her tiny little panties. "All right," she said. "You've made your point, sort of. You look ridiculous, but there's no question that you're a man. But you're not proving anything to anyone with my underwear." She made me promise to buy my own underwear. "Besides," she said, "where better to start than in a retail lingerie outlet, where they would expect you to buy women's underwear for women, and not for yourself." A brilliant plan, I must admit. The plan is set: I'm going to buy my panties and bras tomorrow. I just need to think of some way to exhibit my disregard for these stupid rules without getting myself arrested for exposing myself.
January 3
The trip to the lingerie store was quite thrilling. Alicia refused to accompany me, claiming that it would only make it seem like I'm buying it for her. I had to make it crystal clear that I was shopping for myself, that I would be wearing whatever underwear I buy. It was the best way to make it public. But of course, that doesn't prove anything. Just that I bought women's lingerie.
Anyway, I bought myself seven pairs of panties, in various styles and colours: lacy, silky, satiny, frilly, black, white, red. I bought some bras to match, some more versatile. The clerk was very helpful, if a bit purturbed. She did indeed assume that I was shopping for my mate, but I had to set her straight. I think she was somewhat embarrassed by my claim. She refused to believe me at first. She thought that I was kidding in some sarcastic way. But eventually, she knew that I wasn't, and she helped me pick out something that would fit me. I'll start wearing it tomorrow, and try to show or tell as many people as possible. That'll show 'em.
January 4
I never expected that women's underwear could be so comfortable. I've been wearing these white silk bikini panties all day, and I find that they support me much better than my own underwear. In fact, they're very smooth, and I very much enjoy wearing them. The bra gets in the way a little bit, though. Alicia had to show me how to put it on before she burst into uproarious laughter. I looked absolutely stupid. But I had to make my point. Obviously, women's underwear is designed to fit female bodies, and I simply don't have one. Some of the features simply don't help me at all. The whole idea of wearing a bra seems pointless. But then again, it doesn't really do anything but hinder women, too. Alicia tells me that she's much more comfortable bra-less, and that she thinks that women wear them just for decoration. If that is the case, then I must wear one to complete the female under-uniform.
At any rate, I still don't know how to exhibit myself. I thought about just stripping down in a public place and starting a rant, but that just didn't seem appropriate. Besides, it's too cold outside for that. I'll have to find a better way, and a better opportunity.
January 10
Finally I got enough nerve today to rant and rave and exhibit myself. I don't think the plebes understood. They gaped and laughed and pointed at me like I'm some kind of freakish homosexual. But I'm not. They missed the point. Back to the ol' drawing board.
At least they know my face now. When I find a better way to get my message across, they'll remember me and know what I was trying to tell them.
February 5
Alicia gave me the cold shoulder today. She says she's sick and tired of me wearing a bra and panties. She doesn't like it at all. I tried to convince her that it doesn't mean anything, but she just doesn't get it. I mean, I explained it to her so many goddamned times. She should know that my masculinity is in no danger. I still fuck the shit out of her every night. Doesn't she get it? Why is it that even she is still clinging to that ridiculous rule. She makes me want to wear women's underwear even more, just to prove to her that I'm not going to become feminine. What a fool.
[big spat, angry Alicia throws my panties around, vowing to never return to me]
March 21
Now that Alicia has moved out, I feel much more free. I can wear what I want. I didn't realize how entrenched that clothing convention really is. I'm more determined than ever to show the world how foolish it is.
April 5
Damn it, none of these women understand what I'm doing. I picked up another bar chick tonight. She liked the way I dance. But she just didn't get it when we started getting naked back at my place. She was horrified about my underwear. Like all the others. My message is having no effect. I think I blew it large. I lost Alicia because of this. I suppose that some things are just intractable, and I can't fight them alone. I'm going back to my male underwear.
April 10
I hate these damned boxers. Women's underwear is so much more comfortable. Oh, well. I have to stick to manhood. If that's what they think manhood is, then so be it. I don't care.
April 17
I really have to get rid of those panties and bras. I don't want to wear my boxers anymore. I want my women's underwear. I put it in a box today, and shelved it. I don't want to even see it anymore. It's all the way in the back, where I'll forget about it in a week.
April 24
A funny thing happened to me today. I couldn't stop thinking about that box I put away last week, and its contents. So I took it down and opened it up, and slipped on my favourite silky panties and matching bra. I was so relieved. But I was also disturbed. I was too relieved. I had a huge bone-on. I didn't want to take them off. I haven't been laid in ages. I couldn't stop. I felt so ashamed after that I put them away again. I think they should go into the trash.
May 1
Finally, I'm back to normal. I couldn't do without that underwear. And to think that I almost threw it away. So now I'm wearing my black lace panties and bra set. I feel very sexy, too. I'm beginning to worry. I can't stop wearing it. And I'm really starting to feel, well, sexy. Slinky. God, I don't know what to think about this. Could it be that I was wrong all along, and I'm really becoming effeminate? Why would I need to wear women's underwear? And why do I feel so comfortable in it? Sometimes, I feel so ashamed of myself. But I can't do otherwise. I suppose that I had best keep this secret. I was wrong, and now I have to pay the price. I must try to wean myself off of them again, slowly and painfully, but irrevocably. I can't remain like this. It's dangerous.
May 10
My weaning is, I think going well. I wear my old boxers at least once a week, and I don't feel to eager to come back to silks and lace. I will increase my dosage to two days a week now, and hope for the best.
May 30
Oh, God, I couldn't wait to get out of those boxers today! They're so bulky and unimaginative. I can't stand them! It felt so amazingly good to come back to my little comfy panties. But this is terrible news. I don't want to wear women's clothing anymore, but I can't stop myself. I'm out of control. I've tried for a month to get back into men's clothes, but I can't take it. I'll have to go cold turkey. Tomorrow, I have to screw up my courage, and get rid of my women's underwear for good. In the trash. No more. I need to discipline myself here. NO more of this nonsense.
June 1
Well, my women's underwear is gone. I'll be back to normal now whether I like it or not.
June 27
Alicia called me today, and we talked for a long time. I hope that maybe we can get back together now.
July 10
I did a very bad thing today.
I went over to Alicia's. I talked with her. We sort of made up. But she is seeing someone else now. She doesn't want anything to do with me other than as platonic friendship. I showed her, in a very tense moment, that I'm not feminine anymore. She was embarrassed, and a bit angry, but she understood my pain. But she doesn't.
She took off to the washroom for a moment, and I just stared at her dresser. Where she keeps her underwear. I was trembling like a leaf. I felt nothing about her seeing another man. I was surprisingly unfazed. But her underwear drove me crazy. I impulsively opened her drawer to look at her, uh, drawers. She flushed the toilet, and I knew that I had better hurry. I took a pair of panties in my hand and stuffed them down my pants. I left her apartment soon thereafter. With her panties in my pants.
I was so nervous when I got home. I have Alicia's underwear here beside me. I'm trembling again. Just looking at them makes me shake. I want to put them on. Desperately. Oh, God, just the thought of it...
There. I have put them on. I am now wearing Alicia's cotton panties. No. I am now wearing my cotton panties. I don't want to take them off. I don't even want to see her anymore. I just want her underwear.
July 11
All day I wore those panties. And boy did it feel great. I felt so great in fact that I returned to the lingerie store where my experiment began and bought a bra to match them. And more lingerie. I can only wear it on special occasions, though. I can't permit myself to do it every day. That would be wrong.
July 18
So here I am wearing my panties and bra again. With increasing frequency. This simply must stop. But I've tried, and I cannot. I must quit cold turkey again. No more even thinking about this.
July 23
I'm sorry. I couldn't take it anymore. after almost a week without women's underwear, I snapped. I went back to the lingerie store and bought myself a very pretty silk and lace teddy, white, with fishnet stockings and a garter belt. I've never worn anything that feminine before. But that's not all.
I showered when I got home. And I shaved. My legs. And my torso. It took hours. I thought that my razor would burn out from overworking. But I got it done. I have no more body hair that I can see. And the stockings look pretty good on my smooth legs. They feel even better. The teddy feels a little tight, but overall quite smooth and comfy. I feel so excited. And it's all because of what I'm wearing. It makes me feel feminine. And I like feeling feminine. I'm afraid that I am becoming feminine. And I couldn't stop it. So I am now shaven and wearing women's lingerie. And I don't ever want to take it off, unless it's to slip into a more comfy, if less sexy, pair of women's cotton bikini panties. I can't wear men's clothes anymore. I simply cannot. At least, not underwear. I must maintain my outward male facade. This will be my little secret, this wearing women's underwear. No one must know.
July 31
My body hair doesn't seem to be growing back. I bought a miniskirt today. A short one.
August 10
Now I'm dressing outwardly as a girl for the first time. And I love it.
September 20
I met Alicia. She was shocked. She couldn't believe it. She couldn't recognize me. But she did. She took me in. I showed her how far it had gotten, how crazy my obsession has become. She was quite impressed. She showed me a few tips on how to look sexy. She's good at that. And they worked. I owe her so much. She's such a sweetie.
October 31
My nipples seem bigger. And my body hair still hasn't returned. But it only means less work for me. Finally, something to put in my bra.
December 25
I woke up this morning and looked at myself in the mirror. A fully shaped, full breasted woman stared back at me. I love my slim waist. My tits are getting nice and round.
[etc]
I can really work with this. Throw in more detail here and there. Yes, I like it a lot. But it needs more of my little fantasy about how wearing women's clothes actually physically transforms men into women. The more you wear it, the more you like it, and the more you become female. Then you begin to notice, but not care.
Diary: Bikini Let-Down; Bonus Fantasy: Flouting Social Norms Regarding Gender
Strange things are happening to me.
The bikini experience wasn't very fulfilling. It was not entirely because of the bikini, either. It was partly myself. I wasn't very horny; hadn't been for a few days, in fact. I've been struggling with a low sex drive. And I had probably been wearing it for too long, and had gotten too accustomed to it. Furthermore, I made a mistake in buying that one.
I acted too rashly. I bought it at Sears, which, as I later discovered, has the most pathetic selection of bathing suits in the entire mall. I wandered through Eaton's and the Bay, and each seemed to have a much larger selection. Especially the Bay. I was astounded to discover how large the Bay's swimwear section was.
The problem is that the panty is too tall. It's simply not the sexy dip-down type of panty that I had been fantasizing about. Oh, sure, it does the job, but it's not the heavenly little piece of next-to-nothing that I had hoped for. Although I must admit that the bra is fantastic. One of the great pleasures of buying that bikini was the receipt, which read: "bra. . . $19,99. . . pantie [sic] $19,99." It amazes me that I could own something like that. That I could buy something like that.
A__ [my girlfriend] has been saying things lately that have stimulated my fetish. She knows that I like her panties. But she doesn't know how much I like her panties. She teases me and says that one night she's going to surprise me by leaving her panties in my bed somewhere. She has no idea what pleasure that will give me. I have fantasized for a very long time about snuggling into her little cotton panties. I can't wait.
But back to the bikini: I'm actually thinking about buying another one, one that better conforms to my ideal of bikinihood. I already spent over $50, but I don't care. I need a better bikini. I made a mistake. But then again, I felt the same way about my lingerie at first, but it turned out much better than I had expected. The initial experience has been a letdown both those times. We'll see if the bikini improves for me, too.
In my film textbook, I read about how David Cronenberg's films are often horrifying tales of transformation: a man slowly evolves or devolves into something else. Like The Fly, in which the protagonist overcomes his initial horror at his transformation, and eventually becomes a fly. This piqued my interest in that I fantasize about the slow, horrifying change into a woman, and becoming accustomed to it, and eventually revelling in it. That's exactly what happened to me:
I was always experimenting with things. I loved to challenge the conventions of society by openly flouting them. I smoked pot. I tried everything, or I tried to try everything. The most insidious social norms are those that no one ever notices. Such as gender roles. Many people have deconstructed clothing: rock stars wear dresses to be outrageous. I went somewhat further.
I was inspired to wear women's underwear when I saw how cliche it was becoming for male rock stars to wear dresses. I thought that outer clothing was one thing, and inner clothing quite another. Would such people really dare to dress up in a little string bikini or in some slinky lingerie with garter belt and fishnet stockings? Somehow, I doubted it. At best, they would pull off some kind of Rocky Horror not-quite-sexy outfit and pretend that they had gone the distance. I would wear it all, including cotton panties, bras, lingerie, swimwear, pantihose, the whole bit.
It all started innocently enough. I brazenly went into a lingerie store and bought all sorts of sexy underwear. The clerk, a lovely little blonde, asked me if this was for my girlfriend or wife, and I told her straight out that no, it's for me. That was the whole plan: to shock people into realizing how silly social norms really are. I mean, why do we consider frilly, lacy, and/or silky underwear feminine? She thought I was kidding, but I set her straight. I explained the whole plan to her. She seemed disgusted, but served me anyway. I must have embarrassed her.
That was the first step. It wasn't easy, not even for an extrovert like me. The next step was wearing my new underwear. That was much easier. I slipped into it giddily, nervous from my new plan. I slipped it on and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked ridiculous. But I convinced myself that that is all because of social norms. There is no good reason why I should feel uncomfortable in frilly silk panties. In fact, I found them quite snug and comfortable. I tied on my bra and looked even more foolish. This, I could understand. But I had to maintain the experiment.
I thought that this was harmless enough. I would have to figure out a way to show people that I fearlessly wear women's underwear, without any nefarious effects to my masculinity. Until I figured it out, I thought that I might as well get used to them. I wore a different pair of women's underwear every day, and tried to think of how to exhibit that fact without being obscene.
That was my mistake. I had no idea what I was getting into.
The bikini experience wasn't very fulfilling. It was not entirely because of the bikini, either. It was partly myself. I wasn't very horny; hadn't been for a few days, in fact. I've been struggling with a low sex drive. And I had probably been wearing it for too long, and had gotten too accustomed to it. Furthermore, I made a mistake in buying that one.
I acted too rashly. I bought it at Sears, which, as I later discovered, has the most pathetic selection of bathing suits in the entire mall. I wandered through Eaton's and the Bay, and each seemed to have a much larger selection. Especially the Bay. I was astounded to discover how large the Bay's swimwear section was.
The problem is that the panty is too tall. It's simply not the sexy dip-down type of panty that I had been fantasizing about. Oh, sure, it does the job, but it's not the heavenly little piece of next-to-nothing that I had hoped for. Although I must admit that the bra is fantastic. One of the great pleasures of buying that bikini was the receipt, which read: "bra. . . $19,99. . . pantie [sic] $19,99." It amazes me that I could own something like that. That I could buy something like that.
A__ [my girlfriend] has been saying things lately that have stimulated my fetish. She knows that I like her panties. But she doesn't know how much I like her panties. She teases me and says that one night she's going to surprise me by leaving her panties in my bed somewhere. She has no idea what pleasure that will give me. I have fantasized for a very long time about snuggling into her little cotton panties. I can't wait.
But back to the bikini: I'm actually thinking about buying another one, one that better conforms to my ideal of bikinihood. I already spent over $50, but I don't care. I need a better bikini. I made a mistake. But then again, I felt the same way about my lingerie at first, but it turned out much better than I had expected. The initial experience has been a letdown both those times. We'll see if the bikini improves for me, too.
In my film textbook, I read about how David Cronenberg's films are often horrifying tales of transformation: a man slowly evolves or devolves into something else. Like The Fly, in which the protagonist overcomes his initial horror at his transformation, and eventually becomes a fly. This piqued my interest in that I fantasize about the slow, horrifying change into a woman, and becoming accustomed to it, and eventually revelling in it. That's exactly what happened to me:
I was always experimenting with things. I loved to challenge the conventions of society by openly flouting them. I smoked pot. I tried everything, or I tried to try everything. The most insidious social norms are those that no one ever notices. Such as gender roles. Many people have deconstructed clothing: rock stars wear dresses to be outrageous. I went somewhat further.
I was inspired to wear women's underwear when I saw how cliche it was becoming for male rock stars to wear dresses. I thought that outer clothing was one thing, and inner clothing quite another. Would such people really dare to dress up in a little string bikini or in some slinky lingerie with garter belt and fishnet stockings? Somehow, I doubted it. At best, they would pull off some kind of Rocky Horror not-quite-sexy outfit and pretend that they had gone the distance. I would wear it all, including cotton panties, bras, lingerie, swimwear, pantihose, the whole bit.
It all started innocently enough. I brazenly went into a lingerie store and bought all sorts of sexy underwear. The clerk, a lovely little blonde, asked me if this was for my girlfriend or wife, and I told her straight out that no, it's for me. That was the whole plan: to shock people into realizing how silly social norms really are. I mean, why do we consider frilly, lacy, and/or silky underwear feminine? She thought I was kidding, but I set her straight. I explained the whole plan to her. She seemed disgusted, but served me anyway. I must have embarrassed her.
That was the first step. It wasn't easy, not even for an extrovert like me. The next step was wearing my new underwear. That was much easier. I slipped into it giddily, nervous from my new plan. I slipped it on and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked ridiculous. But I convinced myself that that is all because of social norms. There is no good reason why I should feel uncomfortable in frilly silk panties. In fact, I found them quite snug and comfortable. I tied on my bra and looked even more foolish. This, I could understand. But I had to maintain the experiment.
I thought that this was harmless enough. I would have to figure out a way to show people that I fearlessly wear women's underwear, without any nefarious effects to my masculinity. Until I figured it out, I thought that I might as well get used to them. I wore a different pair of women's underwear every day, and tried to think of how to exhibit that fact without being obscene.
That was my mistake. I had no idea what I was getting into.
Diary: The Bikini Shopping Experience
I'll bet you thought I could never bring myself to do it. Didn't you. You doubted my desire to effeminate myself, didn't you. You thought I was just talking big, as I had for so many years, about so many things regarding my budding girlish tendencies. You thought I would have second thoughts about the whole project and chicken out.
To tell you the honest truth, so did I.
On Friday, I could hardly bring myself to stroll through the department stores to look at what kinds of bikinis I might buy. I was already sweating profusely. My shirt wrinkled with the hot sweat. I just couldn't even look. Despondently, I figured that perhaps it's not really worth the trouble. I thought that maybe it's not that important to me to get a bikini. I thought that I had boasted in a moment of weakness about being able to accomplish something beyond my abilities. I thought that perhaps I should keep my fantasies in the bedroom, in private, and not bother about fulfilling the impossible.
Today, while at work, I thought about bikinis again. It never really left my mind. I only postponed my actions, in a moment of doubt. I needed to be impulsive again, just like I had been when I bought my lingerie on the spur of a moment, according to some half-baked plan. I only thought about it peripherally today, not like I had last week, when I couldn't think of anything else. It was a brief flash of a reminder of my boast.
I came home with the intention of resting all night. I couldn't forget that I had originally planned my purchase for tonight. I ate without even thinking about it. I wasn't horny at all. Too tired. I retired to the computer to play a bit of NHL96, when I looked at the time on my watch, entertaining very briefly the notion that I should finish my game soon and go shopping. The notion grew, and I became more and more nervous. I became thirsty, and I had gas. I was farting continually. I felt feverish. At about twenty past eight, I ended my game, and went to the washroom to collect my thoughts. I imagined that I would still have time to go to the [mall] before it closes at nine o'clock. If that is indeed the time that it closes on Monday evenings. I put on my red flannel shirt and went downstairs to ask Dad for the car keys. Impulsively. I just did it, without thinking about it too much. I didn't even think of an answer in case anyone asked where I planned to go. Mom was meditating in her room, and I had no access to any car keys until shortly after eight thirty. Then I confidently strode into her room and took Dad's keys, and took off. I changed into my grey denim shirt to look a bit less conspicuous. I was on my way, before I even knew it.
I was putting on my shoes when the doorbell rang, and there was a young girl canvassing for charity. I had to tell her that I had no time (which was totally true). I had been fumbling with the laces, not tying my boots quite right in my nervous state. I collected myself and tied them up properly. I hopped into the car and rushed at 120km/h to the [mall].
I parked very close to the usual entrance at Sears, where I had briefly spied some bikinis while walking through there with A__ [my girlfriend] on Friday. I headed for that section, hoping to sneak into it rather than heading straight for it from the aisle. I didn't want to look too conspicuous. There were a few other shoppers around.
The only bikinis there faced the aisle. There was no way to even examine anything without anyone noticing. Fortunately, there was a gentleman looking at swimsuits already. I didn't feel so out of place. I didn't even look at him much, and went to work.
I went around the display, inspecting the wares. The one that caught my eye was reddish or pinkish, with large flowers. It was a mix and match affair: grab a panty and match it with a bra. I flipped through the rack, past the size tens and size fourteens and size eights until I found a little size six. Then I picked up the first bra available, when I noticed that it cost $19,99 per item. Perfect. Cheap. Pretty. I thought it was maybe a little large, but I had little choice. All the other panties were in a similar style, or worse. I brought it to the register, which was right there. I stood there for a moment looking for it, trying to not look self-conscious, with a bikini in my hands. The casiher came to the counter, and didn't say anything more than necessary. No funny looks, no questions, nothing. She just rang through the sale, bagged it, and gave me my change. I headed for the door with a Sears bag containing a bikini. I could hardly believe it. I had shelled out $50 for a bikini. I now own a bikini. I don't think it's quite sunk in yet. I had no idea what to do with the bag and the hangers that she had included with my bikini. I hadn't planned for that yet.
When I finally drove away, at about five minutes to nine, I told myself that, Yes, I now own a bikini. I just bought skimpy women's swimwear. I drove to the parking lot beside the local video store, ripped the tags off the bikini, and stuffed it in my pants. I tossed the bag out the door and went home.
As is traditional when I acquire new clothing, I almost immediately dressed up in it. I'm wearing it now, as a matter of fact. I am wearing a bikini under my clothes. A tight little feminine bikini.
It fits nice and tightly, although the front is a little high. It covers my whole penis. However, it does expose all of my thighs. The elastic clings to the top of my hips. It's wonderfully snug. The bra has straps and pads. It's by far the most interesting bikini bra I've ever owned. The straps are ideal. I love them. The cups are pretty and accentuate breasts. The material is that type of soft lycra, I think. It's very nice. I'm still a little shocked about the whole experience, so I'm not all that horny. I feel a bit ill. I will, however, use it tonight. There is no way around it.
A moment of irony: I put away my laundry today, and found a strange pair of jeans that looked vaguely familiar. I brought them downstairs, and mom told me that they were hers: she had taken an old pair of my jeans because they fit her. So the day that I buy my bikini, I discover that Mom is wearing my clothes, just as I had worn hers.
So I, new bikini owner, will go pleasure myself.
To tell you the honest truth, so did I.
On Friday, I could hardly bring myself to stroll through the department stores to look at what kinds of bikinis I might buy. I was already sweating profusely. My shirt wrinkled with the hot sweat. I just couldn't even look. Despondently, I figured that perhaps it's not really worth the trouble. I thought that maybe it's not that important to me to get a bikini. I thought that I had boasted in a moment of weakness about being able to accomplish something beyond my abilities. I thought that perhaps I should keep my fantasies in the bedroom, in private, and not bother about fulfilling the impossible.
Today, while at work, I thought about bikinis again. It never really left my mind. I only postponed my actions, in a moment of doubt. I needed to be impulsive again, just like I had been when I bought my lingerie on the spur of a moment, according to some half-baked plan. I only thought about it peripherally today, not like I had last week, when I couldn't think of anything else. It was a brief flash of a reminder of my boast.
I came home with the intention of resting all night. I couldn't forget that I had originally planned my purchase for tonight. I ate without even thinking about it. I wasn't horny at all. Too tired. I retired to the computer to play a bit of NHL96, when I looked at the time on my watch, entertaining very briefly the notion that I should finish my game soon and go shopping. The notion grew, and I became more and more nervous. I became thirsty, and I had gas. I was farting continually. I felt feverish. At about twenty past eight, I ended my game, and went to the washroom to collect my thoughts. I imagined that I would still have time to go to the [mall] before it closes at nine o'clock. If that is indeed the time that it closes on Monday evenings. I put on my red flannel shirt and went downstairs to ask Dad for the car keys. Impulsively. I just did it, without thinking about it too much. I didn't even think of an answer in case anyone asked where I planned to go. Mom was meditating in her room, and I had no access to any car keys until shortly after eight thirty. Then I confidently strode into her room and took Dad's keys, and took off. I changed into my grey denim shirt to look a bit less conspicuous. I was on my way, before I even knew it.
I was putting on my shoes when the doorbell rang, and there was a young girl canvassing for charity. I had to tell her that I had no time (which was totally true). I had been fumbling with the laces, not tying my boots quite right in my nervous state. I collected myself and tied them up properly. I hopped into the car and rushed at 120km/h to the [mall].
I parked very close to the usual entrance at Sears, where I had briefly spied some bikinis while walking through there with A__ [my girlfriend] on Friday. I headed for that section, hoping to sneak into it rather than heading straight for it from the aisle. I didn't want to look too conspicuous. There were a few other shoppers around.
The only bikinis there faced the aisle. There was no way to even examine anything without anyone noticing. Fortunately, there was a gentleman looking at swimsuits already. I didn't feel so out of place. I didn't even look at him much, and went to work.
I went around the display, inspecting the wares. The one that caught my eye was reddish or pinkish, with large flowers. It was a mix and match affair: grab a panty and match it with a bra. I flipped through the rack, past the size tens and size fourteens and size eights until I found a little size six. Then I picked up the first bra available, when I noticed that it cost $19,99 per item. Perfect. Cheap. Pretty. I thought it was maybe a little large, but I had little choice. All the other panties were in a similar style, or worse. I brought it to the register, which was right there. I stood there for a moment looking for it, trying to not look self-conscious, with a bikini in my hands. The casiher came to the counter, and didn't say anything more than necessary. No funny looks, no questions, nothing. She just rang through the sale, bagged it, and gave me my change. I headed for the door with a Sears bag containing a bikini. I could hardly believe it. I had shelled out $50 for a bikini. I now own a bikini. I don't think it's quite sunk in yet. I had no idea what to do with the bag and the hangers that she had included with my bikini. I hadn't planned for that yet.
When I finally drove away, at about five minutes to nine, I told myself that, Yes, I now own a bikini. I just bought skimpy women's swimwear. I drove to the parking lot beside the local video store, ripped the tags off the bikini, and stuffed it in my pants. I tossed the bag out the door and went home.
As is traditional when I acquire new clothing, I almost immediately dressed up in it. I'm wearing it now, as a matter of fact. I am wearing a bikini under my clothes. A tight little feminine bikini.
It fits nice and tightly, although the front is a little high. It covers my whole penis. However, it does expose all of my thighs. The elastic clings to the top of my hips. It's wonderfully snug. The bra has straps and pads. It's by far the most interesting bikini bra I've ever owned. The straps are ideal. I love them. The cups are pretty and accentuate breasts. The material is that type of soft lycra, I think. It's very nice. I'm still a little shocked about the whole experience, so I'm not all that horny. I feel a bit ill. I will, however, use it tonight. There is no way around it.
A moment of irony: I put away my laundry today, and found a strange pair of jeans that looked vaguely familiar. I brought them downstairs, and mom told me that they were hers: she had taken an old pair of my jeans because they fit her. So the day that I buy my bikini, I discover that Mom is wearing my clothes, just as I had worn hers.
So I, new bikini owner, will go pleasure myself.
Diary: Alternate Ending to Basic Training
Okay, the end is really bad. I don't like the way that I was always exposed to women's clothes. The middle should have been different. It should be virtually impossible to graduate to underwear. So it should be like this, after I experiment with bathing suits:
Everyone tells me that I'm out of control. But I didn't care. I kept doing it happily. I couldn't resist. I didn't care that I was effeminating. I graduated very quickly to underwear. They had to count all my experimentations, and bump me up. I was always the best and most enthusiastic of the group. I went so far as to shave my body. I even took female hormones to outdo my colleagues. I had decided to become a girl. There was no stopping me.
That's still kind of empty. I love that sorority house story where that guy is exposed for the first time to women's clothes, and is asked to join the sorority voluntarily. They even try to talk him out of it. But he insists. He wants to be a girl. He wants to maintain that pleasure of wearing women's underwear at all times. He willingly takes the hormone pills. That really turns me on: there's nothing left for him, just women's underwear, and growing tits. Becoming a girl, with no strings attached.
I'm just babbling again. I better quit. Tomorrow could be a very big day. When I buy my bikini.
Everyone tells me that I'm out of control. But I didn't care. I kept doing it happily. I couldn't resist. I didn't care that I was effeminating. I graduated very quickly to underwear. They had to count all my experimentations, and bump me up. I was always the best and most enthusiastic of the group. I went so far as to shave my body. I even took female hormones to outdo my colleagues. I had decided to become a girl. There was no stopping me.
That's still kind of empty. I love that sorority house story where that guy is exposed for the first time to women's clothes, and is asked to join the sorority voluntarily. They even try to talk him out of it. But he insists. He wants to be a girl. He wants to maintain that pleasure of wearing women's underwear at all times. He willingly takes the hormone pills. That really turns me on: there's nothing left for him, just women's underwear, and growing tits. Becoming a girl, with no strings attached.
I'm just babbling again. I better quit. Tomorrow could be a very big day. When I buy my bikini.
Diary: Bikini Plan; and Bonus Fantasy: Basic Training
I think I have perhaps reached another stage in my development. Well, not quite yet. Almost. I'm on the verge. Sort of. I don't know.
I've done it before, though. It seems like a long time ago, though. It seems like an eternity ago. Maybe I've regressed a bit since then. I just feel like I'm on the threshold of something huge again.
I'm going to buy my bikini within the next week.
Or so I say now. I've been saying it for years already, but I've never dared to buy a bikini. That would be crazy. I've bought lingerie, but, it seems to me, that that's easier to find an alibi for, easier to explain away. "I'm buying it for my girlfriend for Christmas," I explained. One of many, I'm sure. Nothing unusual about it. But I bought it at a dead hour of night, when there were no other customers, probably in a place tacky enough that not many women actually shop there. But I did buy it, didn't I?
I didn't have a girlfriend at the time, and that sort of precipitated my decision. It also gave me the crazy idea to shave my legs. I can't do that now. But I plan to buy my bikini tomorrow or early next week. I need it, I think. I've needed it for a long time, and I'm not going to get one any other way. Just like the lingerie.
I love talking about this. It makes me feel so. . .I dunno. . . honest? Kinky? Horny? Can I really reduce this whole enormous waste of disk space to a mindless stimulation of my fetish? I suppose I can. But no, I know that there is a larger psychological significance to this. I know that writing about wearing women's clothing allowed me to feel more comfortable about it. That moment when I first dared to admit to myself and my computer that I am a total flaming panty-wearing transvestite fetishist was one of the crucial stages of accepting myself. Now I spend far too much time writing about it. Revelling in my secret femininity.
I am wearing my green one-piece swimsuit right now, beneath my clothes. Why not? I want to buy swimwear, so I might as well wear what I have, right? It gives me a taste of what I will have by the end of next week.
There's not all that much more that I need. I need the bikini, and I need some better panties and a bra. That's about it, though. I don't think I can buy the panties anytime soon, though.
I'm beginning to think of what to do with my stash. I would just love to have an alternate panty drawer, where I keep nothing but dainty female underthings. That would be ultimate acceptance. So I figure that I might as well keep my stuff in my closet drawer, hidden in a bag, still, but in a drawer nonetheless. The box where I keep it now is far too clumsy and inconvenient. Besides, I have to think about where I will put my stash of girls' clothes when I move in with A__ [my girlfriend]. I can't get rid of it. The biggest mistake of my life was getting rid of that wonderful blue and green bikini that I had stolen. It was the greatest source of feminine pleasure that I ever owned, and I threw it away with the garbage, out of shame. How stupid of me. No, I must keep my girlie stuff, even though I might never have another opportunity to wear it. I must take the chance.
I want to talk about my plan. I have to figure it out before I actually do it. Today, I walked to the [shopping mall] from work, half planning to scope out one of the department stores for the object of my fetish. I didn't have the guts, and I didn't feel that I had the time. So I didn't do it. But I have to do it tomorrow. I'm going to look around nonchalantly, not looking too closely. I will closely monitor the crowd around me, to make sure that there are not too many people. And I will make sure that there is a cashier nearby, so that I don't have to make too much of a spectacle. Then I will buy it, just like that. The cashier might ask me something, or look at me funny. But I will play it down. I'll tell her that my girlfriend wanted me to buy it for her for her birthday which is this weekend, and that the whole idea makes me uncomfortable, but hey, I'm doing it. I just have to make sure that nobody sees me, and that I don't take too long doing it, and that it doesn't cost me too much money. I don't really care what the cashier thinks. As long as that person doesn't know anyone that I know. The thing is that I will have gotten back my jacket from [the suit store] before this, and my framed print as well. I'll have plenty of stuff to hide it with when I take it off the rack and bring it to the cashier. Few people will notice, I hope. Then it will be done, and I will have my own bikini. I'll have to hide the bag (or only its contents) somewhere on me before I get back to work. I don't want anyone to even guess that I've bought anything. They might ask me about my jacket or about my print, and I'll gladly show them that, but I don't want them to know about my bikini. That's my secret. I will go the washroom in the mall and stuff it in my pants. Or I will go to the washroom and hide in in my coat pockets. Unfortunately, that is where my plan tends to fall apart. I think the best option is to stuff it in my pants while I hide in a cubicle and pretend to shit. Just thinking about it makes me nervous and trembly. But it has to be done. It'll be easy. If I can't do it tomorrow, or during one of my future lunch breaks, then I'll have to do it in the evening. There might be too many people about during my lunch break. There are notoriously few shoppers in the late evening. Nobody will notice me. Plus, I can bring it back to the car, most likely in a box, and hide it on myself there, and discard the box. Like when I bought my lingerie. Simple. It was too late tonight when I thought about doing it during the evening.
So that's the plan. But what about the bikini itself? And what about possible problems?
First, what do I do if someone sees me? Ignore them? Feed them the cockamammie story about buying it for A__ [my girlfriend]? The latter would probably be best. I don't think that there are great chances of meeting anyone from work. Anyone else would be an enormous fluke. If I meet a friend, then I will have no explanation. Especially if I meet one of A__'s friends. Still, I have my story, and I will stick by it. I just won't be seen, that's all. And even if I am, then I don't really care. To Hell with it. I need a bikini, and that's final. Second, what if I can't find the right bikini? Then I keep looking until I do find one. If it's expensive, then I'll have to decide quickly whether or not to shell out for it. I figure not much more than $60. I'll probably think of more problems later.
The bikini. What should it look like?
I know what I want to wear. There are two different types that I would be willing to go for. One is the type that I've already owned, similar to the blue and green one. The bra I don't really care about. It can look like anything, as long as it's not too big, or unflattering. The panties are the important part, although I do need them both. The panties should be either that inch-wide solid piece, dipping down towards the crotch, and small, or a thin string with little knots on the side. Either one will do. The material must be smooth like lycra. If it's the first kind, the normal panty, then I want a bright colour, I think. I want something exciting and bright. Tropical, even. I'd prefer a multicolour to a solid colour. But I'll settle for a solid couloured one if that's my best bet. It's the shape and price more than anything else that counts.
So when I go through with it, will it be another stage? In a way, it must be: even though I've done it before, it must count. Maybe it means that now I will do it with increasing frequency. Maybe it means that I don't care how many people see me, and I don't care that I will most likely return to the store where I buy it. Most of all it means that I am buying women's clothes even though I have a close relationship with a woman; my fetish still rules me.
I can't help but remember my fantasies of effemination. One little taste, I feared, would eventually turn me into a bona fide girl. I would try on something innocent like pantyhose and forget about it for a while, then think about it, and try it on again, and again, then start thinking about other things, and start wearing that, too, and so on. It's so much like my gradations fantasy: pantyhose 10 times, leotards 100 times, bathing suits 1000 times, bikinis 10000 times, underwear 100000 times, lingerie 1000000 times, and finally womanhood. I also imagined skipping levels before my proper time, and that it's so dangerous that I can't possibly survive if I do it that way. Like this:
I got started with pantyhose. The leaders introduced it to me and told me that I would have to wear it ten times before I could go on to anything more. We had to train, to prepare against effeminization by the enemy. There had been reports that the enemy captured our men and brainwashed them into renouncing masculinity by making them wear women's underwear and masturbate in it. At first I was reluctant. I didn't think that I wanted to be a girl. But after a couple of times, I looked at my lucky collegues who had graduated to bathing suits, and even bikinis, and, dare I imagine, actual underwear, and I envied them. I wanted to be one of them. I wanted to have some silk on my body. I wanted to look like a girl, and feel as sexy as those garments can make me. I desperately wanted to experience women's underthings directly on my naked body. I wanted to experience it just like real women do. I toiled away in my pantihose, at first content to enjoy them for what they were. And they were good. Very good. Very intense. But I looked forward to being allowed to wear a bikini. It was still so discouragingly far off.
I could just imagine how the lycra would feel against my genitals, soft and tight. I could imagine how the elastic would snuggle high on my hips, and leave my thighs totally naked and exposed; I could imagine how the elastic would dip to almost my pubic hair in the front. I could almost feel the tight, smooth lycra around my breast, under my arms. And nothing masculine blocking its influence: just women's clothing directly on my male body, with nothing to protect me. I sweated with anticipation.
"What happens," I asked my trainer, "if I wear something before my time? Like if I wear underwear after wearing a bathing suit only 500 times?"
She laughed. "You'd go insane. You couldn't possibly be ready for the shock. You couldn't handle the sheer femininity of it. You'd probably never be able to go back. Your training will have been useless. You'll renounce your masculinity for sure. You have to do it as prescribed, or else risk being totally effeminated."
I understood the problem. The idea of preparing us for the enemy's brainwashing would have the opposite effect. I certainly wouldn't want that. I removed my pantihose and dressed back up in my regular male clothes and went home. But I couldn't stop thinking about bikinis and panties and bathing suits, and how sexy they are. I worried that the desensitization program was failing me, but I comforted myself with the thought that I just had to stick with it, and I would be OK.
I graduated from pantihose and went on to leotards. They were very tight, very form-fitting. They were pink and purple, made of lycra, and very shocking at first. I didn't enjoy them at all, because they made me feel uncomfortable. I had to wear them 100 times. I couldn't stand the thought that someone might notice that I feel so good in them. I felt so vibrant and excited. I almost wanted to swing my hips femininely. They were high cut up the thighs, like a bathing suit, but there was a pair of stockings under it. Plus, for every new item of clothing, we had to wear our own male underwear the first few times before the actual counting could begin, just to be sure that we wouldn't be shocked. My own underwear at first, in my pantihose, seemed very useful. I didn't want to know what it would feel like to touch it naked. But then it began to feel intrusive in the leotards. I wanted to know if the leotards felt as nice against my naked dick as the pantihose did. It sure did. It might even have felt better, with the tightness the bodysuit part exerted on my genitals. I dreamed of wearing nothing but a bathing suit. I could hardly even bring myself to think of what underwear would feel like.
Shocked at my thoughts, I asked my colleagues how they felt when they wore their ration of women's clothing. None of them betrayed any hint of the enthusiasm that I felt. I began to worry even more. Why wasn't the desensitization working on me? The very idea that I was actually being feminized, rather than frightening me or alarming me, gave me a startlingly huge boner. It made me think about wearing higher level clothing in the near future, as I gradually move up the ranks. I looked forward to it, not because I wanted to be desensitized, but because I had entertained the idea that I wouldn't be desensitized, and that I would actually enjoy it. Enjoy it enormously. I wanted to be wearing my leotard, so that I could fantasize. But I felt guilty about the thought. I wasn't supposed to do this. I would be fine. I would have to be desensitized. Sticking with the program would help me. I had to control myself.
It must have been the thirtieth time that I wore a leotard that I began to cheat. Only halfway through the level were we allowed to wear our feminine attire to bed, because that would help desensitize us. I smuggled my leotard out of the locker room and brought it to bed with me. I wanted to sleep with my leotard. I slipped into it in the dark, and I masturbated myself to sleep. I was careful not to come on it, so that no one would notice when I exchanged it for a different one in the morning. I felt disgusting and ashamed when I was finished. I had cheated. I was risking my masculinity, ironically to please my sexual desires. I put them away and got my regular clothes back on.
The next night, I couldn't resist but to do it again. And the night after that, too. And every night thereafter. Every night I felt guilty, but I became better at concealing my secret. Nobody even suspected. Despite my shame, I had to admit that I thoroughly enjoyed myself.
Around the sixtieth day of leotards, I asked my colleagues whether they looked forward to wearing the one piece bathing suits for 1000 days. They all seemed either apathetic or unenthusiastic. "What, do you think you guys would be ready if they made us wear them now? I mean, if you guys are so desensitized to these leotards, then what difference does it make if you were to wear a bathing suit tomorrow?"
They chided me. "Ha! So you think you're better than us, huh? You think you're ready for the bathing suits? I'm not. I don't want to risk my manhood. Even though I don't see much danger in me wearing one, I don't want to take the risk."
"So," I retorted, "you're a pansy about it, are you? What are you, afraid?"
"All right, then, smartass, let's see about you! Are you willing to do it? Are you willing to skip a few grades? I dare you to, if you're such a man."
I must have almost blushed at the thought of what I had gotten myself into. A challenge to skip ahead and wear a bathing suit. "Ok, if that's what you think, I'll do it. I'm not afraid. I dare you to do it, too."
He agreed, and we struck up a plan to steal some bathing suits that day, and to meet at night wearing them over our underwear.
So we managed to get our bathing suits. I brought mine with me covertly, and when I was alone, I slipped into it, putting it over my underwear, as we had agreed. It was exquisite. I wanted to feel the inside of it. I felt so sexy, so feminine. I must have stood there amazed, rubbing myself, for ten minutes.
At the appointed time, I showed up at our meeting place. He was already waiting for me.
"So," I asked. Let's see what you're wearing under that."
"You first."
"Simultaneously."
"OK."
"At the count of three."
One. Two.
Three. He was in his bathing suit, but he seemed hesitant. I burst out of my clothes.
"So there. You dared. I'm shocked."
"Well. . . I guess you're right. I'm not afraid of this shit." He almost spat as he said it.
"What's your problem? Does it bother you to be breaking the rules?"
"Fuck you. You sure seem to be enjoying yourself there, buddy."
"Yeah, so? I'm just not afraid of this."
"I think you like wearing this stuff. You'd better be careful. Before you know it, you'll be out of control, and you'll want to wear it all the time."
"Yeah, right. I don't think so."
"Well, just consider yourself lucky that I don't rat on you. And think about what I'm telling you. It's dangerous. I don't want to risk myself any longer."
"Suit yourself," I answered, and walked away. I probably sachayed away, actually, now that I think about it. When I got to my room, I didn't want to give up my prize. I kept it on all night, but made sure to keep my own underwear on the whole time. After all, I didn't want to enjoy it too much.
Of course, that didn't last long. I bragged to my colleagues that I wore the bathing suit. It made them uneasy. I figured that they were just impressed. they wished that they could be as brave and manly as me. I proudly snuck into the supply room and stole another bathing suit every now and then, letting the guys know that I was braving it more and more often. Already the second time I dared to try it on without my underwear. Totally unprotected. I almost died of pleasure. I started strutting it around when I thought I was safe. I was way ahead of them in my development, even if my advancement wasn't being officially recognized. But in the back of my mind, I was already planning my next coup d'etat: I would try on a bikini.
Just like before, I snuck into the supply room and took the sexiest, tightest, most colourful, skimpiest, most feminine bikini that I could find. I spent a long time, heart palpitating, trying to choose. I didn't even keep my underwear on when I put it on. It was even better than I had anticipated. I loved it. I wanted to keep it on forever.
As my forays into the storeroom increased in frequency, I feared the danger to my manhood. But I didn't care when I thought about the pleasures of wearing such incredibly sexy clothing. Only when I finished myself did I chew my nails worrying that I had gone too far. Even as I longed for my next level of advancement, I feared that I was becoming a girl. Desensitization was failing miserably. It turned me on somehow to think so. But I realized that what was done was done. I had started the process of effeminization myself, and I knew, as much as I feared admitting it, that I was slowly turning myself into a woman. There was no stopping it. I would resist it as much as possible, but I would fail.
That was when I decided to not cheat anymore. I truly felt ashamed. I would maintain the program. No more enjoying myself. But the program tempted me, too. It offered me pleasure that I could not indulge in. I tortured myself as I forbade myself from satisfying myself with what they supplied me. Sometimes it was impossible, but moslty I succeeded. For a while at least.
One of the crucial moments occurred when, masturbating in a bathing suit when I wasn't even allowed to wear it to bed, I was caught by my mistress. She scolded me, and I never felt such shame. She was truly shocked, and totally unable to understand. I had cheated. She didn't know what to think. She exposed my secret to the leaders, who decided to shame me in front of all my colleagues. I was bucked down to pantihose. I had to work my way all the way back up. I had to be desensitized again, from scratch.
Of course, I didn't mind at all. In a way, I rejoiced because it meant more time for me wearing women's clothes. But I wanted to wear more enticing stuff.
So I did. I wore underwear now. I stole panties and bras. I kept them, too. I needed them. I was much more successful at cheating now, because I had a recourse to better things at night when no one was looking. having to sleep in leotards, I slipped into my panties and bra and worked myself over better than anyone had ever done. I was safe, because I had struck up a friendship with my mistress. She felt remorseful about denouncing me. She wanted to understand, and we had long talks about my ambitions.
"Why do you want to jump levels? I don't understand. Isn't the desensitization working? Don't you want to be a man? Don't you like being a man?"
"Of course I do. I don't know why. I just enjoy it, wearing your stuff."
"What do you mean, you enjoy it?"
"Well, it, uh, excites me. It makes me feel so much more confident, so much more comfortable. And I love the way it feels on my body. I love the way it looks. It's very pretty. I could ask you why you like wearing your stuff."
"I'm supposed to! I'm a woman! You're not, and you're not supposed to wear it!"
"But you must admit that it's very pretty, and soft, and sexy."
"Yes."
"That's all it is. It's just fun."
"Oh. I just don't know what to do about it."
"You don't have to do anything about it."
When she realized that I was stealing her things once in a while, she became angry. But she couldn't denounce me again. So she came to an agreement with me. She wouldn't denounce me, but I would have to stop wearing her things. She would give me her hand me downs. I thanked her with all my heart.
For a long time, I only wore it secretly. I didn't want her to see me in her stuff. I knew she didn't want to see it. She already saw me desensitizing, and knew how pointless it was. We once surprised each other as I was wearing her stuff, and she since became more comfortable. Soon I would start wearing her old underwear in her presence without any problems. We talked about lingerie fashions. She showed me a few beauty tricks. I was her girlfriend now. The big step was in becoming comfortable with her while wearing her underwear.
This went on for a long time. I graduated to my own underwear after a while, and I didn't need hers. I had my own panties and bras. Soon I wore lingerie, and had the greatest time of my life. Unbeknownst to the authorities. I graduated with flying colours.
Then I was captured by the enemy. I am proud to say that the desensitization program worked perfectly. When they tied me down and forced me to wear their lingerie, I laughed and obliged them most happily. They were amazed. They threatened me not to play games, and I didn't care. They stripped me down and shaved me naked, and forced me into a gorgeous lingerie outfit, which I thoroughly enjoyed. I pranced around like one of the girls. I became a girl at last.
I've done it before, though. It seems like a long time ago, though. It seems like an eternity ago. Maybe I've regressed a bit since then. I just feel like I'm on the threshold of something huge again.
I'm going to buy my bikini within the next week.
Or so I say now. I've been saying it for years already, but I've never dared to buy a bikini. That would be crazy. I've bought lingerie, but, it seems to me, that that's easier to find an alibi for, easier to explain away. "I'm buying it for my girlfriend for Christmas," I explained. One of many, I'm sure. Nothing unusual about it. But I bought it at a dead hour of night, when there were no other customers, probably in a place tacky enough that not many women actually shop there. But I did buy it, didn't I?
I didn't have a girlfriend at the time, and that sort of precipitated my decision. It also gave me the crazy idea to shave my legs. I can't do that now. But I plan to buy my bikini tomorrow or early next week. I need it, I think. I've needed it for a long time, and I'm not going to get one any other way. Just like the lingerie.
I love talking about this. It makes me feel so. . .I dunno. . . honest? Kinky? Horny? Can I really reduce this whole enormous waste of disk space to a mindless stimulation of my fetish? I suppose I can. But no, I know that there is a larger psychological significance to this. I know that writing about wearing women's clothing allowed me to feel more comfortable about it. That moment when I first dared to admit to myself and my computer that I am a total flaming panty-wearing transvestite fetishist was one of the crucial stages of accepting myself. Now I spend far too much time writing about it. Revelling in my secret femininity.
I am wearing my green one-piece swimsuit right now, beneath my clothes. Why not? I want to buy swimwear, so I might as well wear what I have, right? It gives me a taste of what I will have by the end of next week.
There's not all that much more that I need. I need the bikini, and I need some better panties and a bra. That's about it, though. I don't think I can buy the panties anytime soon, though.
I'm beginning to think of what to do with my stash. I would just love to have an alternate panty drawer, where I keep nothing but dainty female underthings. That would be ultimate acceptance. So I figure that I might as well keep my stuff in my closet drawer, hidden in a bag, still, but in a drawer nonetheless. The box where I keep it now is far too clumsy and inconvenient. Besides, I have to think about where I will put my stash of girls' clothes when I move in with A__ [my girlfriend]. I can't get rid of it. The biggest mistake of my life was getting rid of that wonderful blue and green bikini that I had stolen. It was the greatest source of feminine pleasure that I ever owned, and I threw it away with the garbage, out of shame. How stupid of me. No, I must keep my girlie stuff, even though I might never have another opportunity to wear it. I must take the chance.
I want to talk about my plan. I have to figure it out before I actually do it. Today, I walked to the [shopping mall] from work, half planning to scope out one of the department stores for the object of my fetish. I didn't have the guts, and I didn't feel that I had the time. So I didn't do it. But I have to do it tomorrow. I'm going to look around nonchalantly, not looking too closely. I will closely monitor the crowd around me, to make sure that there are not too many people. And I will make sure that there is a cashier nearby, so that I don't have to make too much of a spectacle. Then I will buy it, just like that. The cashier might ask me something, or look at me funny. But I will play it down. I'll tell her that my girlfriend wanted me to buy it for her for her birthday which is this weekend, and that the whole idea makes me uncomfortable, but hey, I'm doing it. I just have to make sure that nobody sees me, and that I don't take too long doing it, and that it doesn't cost me too much money. I don't really care what the cashier thinks. As long as that person doesn't know anyone that I know. The thing is that I will have gotten back my jacket from [the suit store] before this, and my framed print as well. I'll have plenty of stuff to hide it with when I take it off the rack and bring it to the cashier. Few people will notice, I hope. Then it will be done, and I will have my own bikini. I'll have to hide the bag (or only its contents) somewhere on me before I get back to work. I don't want anyone to even guess that I've bought anything. They might ask me about my jacket or about my print, and I'll gladly show them that, but I don't want them to know about my bikini. That's my secret. I will go the washroom in the mall and stuff it in my pants. Or I will go to the washroom and hide in in my coat pockets. Unfortunately, that is where my plan tends to fall apart. I think the best option is to stuff it in my pants while I hide in a cubicle and pretend to shit. Just thinking about it makes me nervous and trembly. But it has to be done. It'll be easy. If I can't do it tomorrow, or during one of my future lunch breaks, then I'll have to do it in the evening. There might be too many people about during my lunch break. There are notoriously few shoppers in the late evening. Nobody will notice me. Plus, I can bring it back to the car, most likely in a box, and hide it on myself there, and discard the box. Like when I bought my lingerie. Simple. It was too late tonight when I thought about doing it during the evening.
So that's the plan. But what about the bikini itself? And what about possible problems?
First, what do I do if someone sees me? Ignore them? Feed them the cockamammie story about buying it for A__ [my girlfriend]? The latter would probably be best. I don't think that there are great chances of meeting anyone from work. Anyone else would be an enormous fluke. If I meet a friend, then I will have no explanation. Especially if I meet one of A__'s friends. Still, I have my story, and I will stick by it. I just won't be seen, that's all. And even if I am, then I don't really care. To Hell with it. I need a bikini, and that's final. Second, what if I can't find the right bikini? Then I keep looking until I do find one. If it's expensive, then I'll have to decide quickly whether or not to shell out for it. I figure not much more than $60. I'll probably think of more problems later.
The bikini. What should it look like?
I know what I want to wear. There are two different types that I would be willing to go for. One is the type that I've already owned, similar to the blue and green one. The bra I don't really care about. It can look like anything, as long as it's not too big, or unflattering. The panties are the important part, although I do need them both. The panties should be either that inch-wide solid piece, dipping down towards the crotch, and small, or a thin string with little knots on the side. Either one will do. The material must be smooth like lycra. If it's the first kind, the normal panty, then I want a bright colour, I think. I want something exciting and bright. Tropical, even. I'd prefer a multicolour to a solid colour. But I'll settle for a solid couloured one if that's my best bet. It's the shape and price more than anything else that counts.
So when I go through with it, will it be another stage? In a way, it must be: even though I've done it before, it must count. Maybe it means that now I will do it with increasing frequency. Maybe it means that I don't care how many people see me, and I don't care that I will most likely return to the store where I buy it. Most of all it means that I am buying women's clothes even though I have a close relationship with a woman; my fetish still rules me.
I can't help but remember my fantasies of effemination. One little taste, I feared, would eventually turn me into a bona fide girl. I would try on something innocent like pantyhose and forget about it for a while, then think about it, and try it on again, and again, then start thinking about other things, and start wearing that, too, and so on. It's so much like my gradations fantasy: pantyhose 10 times, leotards 100 times, bathing suits 1000 times, bikinis 10000 times, underwear 100000 times, lingerie 1000000 times, and finally womanhood. I also imagined skipping levels before my proper time, and that it's so dangerous that I can't possibly survive if I do it that way. Like this:
I got started with pantyhose. The leaders introduced it to me and told me that I would have to wear it ten times before I could go on to anything more. We had to train, to prepare against effeminization by the enemy. There had been reports that the enemy captured our men and brainwashed them into renouncing masculinity by making them wear women's underwear and masturbate in it. At first I was reluctant. I didn't think that I wanted to be a girl. But after a couple of times, I looked at my lucky collegues who had graduated to bathing suits, and even bikinis, and, dare I imagine, actual underwear, and I envied them. I wanted to be one of them. I wanted to have some silk on my body. I wanted to look like a girl, and feel as sexy as those garments can make me. I desperately wanted to experience women's underthings directly on my naked body. I wanted to experience it just like real women do. I toiled away in my pantihose, at first content to enjoy them for what they were. And they were good. Very good. Very intense. But I looked forward to being allowed to wear a bikini. It was still so discouragingly far off.
I could just imagine how the lycra would feel against my genitals, soft and tight. I could imagine how the elastic would snuggle high on my hips, and leave my thighs totally naked and exposed; I could imagine how the elastic would dip to almost my pubic hair in the front. I could almost feel the tight, smooth lycra around my breast, under my arms. And nothing masculine blocking its influence: just women's clothing directly on my male body, with nothing to protect me. I sweated with anticipation.
"What happens," I asked my trainer, "if I wear something before my time? Like if I wear underwear after wearing a bathing suit only 500 times?"
She laughed. "You'd go insane. You couldn't possibly be ready for the shock. You couldn't handle the sheer femininity of it. You'd probably never be able to go back. Your training will have been useless. You'll renounce your masculinity for sure. You have to do it as prescribed, or else risk being totally effeminated."
I understood the problem. The idea of preparing us for the enemy's brainwashing would have the opposite effect. I certainly wouldn't want that. I removed my pantihose and dressed back up in my regular male clothes and went home. But I couldn't stop thinking about bikinis and panties and bathing suits, and how sexy they are. I worried that the desensitization program was failing me, but I comforted myself with the thought that I just had to stick with it, and I would be OK.
I graduated from pantihose and went on to leotards. They were very tight, very form-fitting. They were pink and purple, made of lycra, and very shocking at first. I didn't enjoy them at all, because they made me feel uncomfortable. I had to wear them 100 times. I couldn't stand the thought that someone might notice that I feel so good in them. I felt so vibrant and excited. I almost wanted to swing my hips femininely. They were high cut up the thighs, like a bathing suit, but there was a pair of stockings under it. Plus, for every new item of clothing, we had to wear our own male underwear the first few times before the actual counting could begin, just to be sure that we wouldn't be shocked. My own underwear at first, in my pantihose, seemed very useful. I didn't want to know what it would feel like to touch it naked. But then it began to feel intrusive in the leotards. I wanted to know if the leotards felt as nice against my naked dick as the pantihose did. It sure did. It might even have felt better, with the tightness the bodysuit part exerted on my genitals. I dreamed of wearing nothing but a bathing suit. I could hardly even bring myself to think of what underwear would feel like.
Shocked at my thoughts, I asked my colleagues how they felt when they wore their ration of women's clothing. None of them betrayed any hint of the enthusiasm that I felt. I began to worry even more. Why wasn't the desensitization working on me? The very idea that I was actually being feminized, rather than frightening me or alarming me, gave me a startlingly huge boner. It made me think about wearing higher level clothing in the near future, as I gradually move up the ranks. I looked forward to it, not because I wanted to be desensitized, but because I had entertained the idea that I wouldn't be desensitized, and that I would actually enjoy it. Enjoy it enormously. I wanted to be wearing my leotard, so that I could fantasize. But I felt guilty about the thought. I wasn't supposed to do this. I would be fine. I would have to be desensitized. Sticking with the program would help me. I had to control myself.
It must have been the thirtieth time that I wore a leotard that I began to cheat. Only halfway through the level were we allowed to wear our feminine attire to bed, because that would help desensitize us. I smuggled my leotard out of the locker room and brought it to bed with me. I wanted to sleep with my leotard. I slipped into it in the dark, and I masturbated myself to sleep. I was careful not to come on it, so that no one would notice when I exchanged it for a different one in the morning. I felt disgusting and ashamed when I was finished. I had cheated. I was risking my masculinity, ironically to please my sexual desires. I put them away and got my regular clothes back on.
The next night, I couldn't resist but to do it again. And the night after that, too. And every night thereafter. Every night I felt guilty, but I became better at concealing my secret. Nobody even suspected. Despite my shame, I had to admit that I thoroughly enjoyed myself.
Around the sixtieth day of leotards, I asked my colleagues whether they looked forward to wearing the one piece bathing suits for 1000 days. They all seemed either apathetic or unenthusiastic. "What, do you think you guys would be ready if they made us wear them now? I mean, if you guys are so desensitized to these leotards, then what difference does it make if you were to wear a bathing suit tomorrow?"
They chided me. "Ha! So you think you're better than us, huh? You think you're ready for the bathing suits? I'm not. I don't want to risk my manhood. Even though I don't see much danger in me wearing one, I don't want to take the risk."
"So," I retorted, "you're a pansy about it, are you? What are you, afraid?"
"All right, then, smartass, let's see about you! Are you willing to do it? Are you willing to skip a few grades? I dare you to, if you're such a man."
I must have almost blushed at the thought of what I had gotten myself into. A challenge to skip ahead and wear a bathing suit. "Ok, if that's what you think, I'll do it. I'm not afraid. I dare you to do it, too."
He agreed, and we struck up a plan to steal some bathing suits that day, and to meet at night wearing them over our underwear.
So we managed to get our bathing suits. I brought mine with me covertly, and when I was alone, I slipped into it, putting it over my underwear, as we had agreed. It was exquisite. I wanted to feel the inside of it. I felt so sexy, so feminine. I must have stood there amazed, rubbing myself, for ten minutes.
At the appointed time, I showed up at our meeting place. He was already waiting for me.
"So," I asked. Let's see what you're wearing under that."
"You first."
"Simultaneously."
"OK."
"At the count of three."
One. Two.
Three. He was in his bathing suit, but he seemed hesitant. I burst out of my clothes.
"So there. You dared. I'm shocked."
"Well. . . I guess you're right. I'm not afraid of this shit." He almost spat as he said it.
"What's your problem? Does it bother you to be breaking the rules?"
"Fuck you. You sure seem to be enjoying yourself there, buddy."
"Yeah, so? I'm just not afraid of this."
"I think you like wearing this stuff. You'd better be careful. Before you know it, you'll be out of control, and you'll want to wear it all the time."
"Yeah, right. I don't think so."
"Well, just consider yourself lucky that I don't rat on you. And think about what I'm telling you. It's dangerous. I don't want to risk myself any longer."
"Suit yourself," I answered, and walked away. I probably sachayed away, actually, now that I think about it. When I got to my room, I didn't want to give up my prize. I kept it on all night, but made sure to keep my own underwear on the whole time. After all, I didn't want to enjoy it too much.
Of course, that didn't last long. I bragged to my colleagues that I wore the bathing suit. It made them uneasy. I figured that they were just impressed. they wished that they could be as brave and manly as me. I proudly snuck into the supply room and stole another bathing suit every now and then, letting the guys know that I was braving it more and more often. Already the second time I dared to try it on without my underwear. Totally unprotected. I almost died of pleasure. I started strutting it around when I thought I was safe. I was way ahead of them in my development, even if my advancement wasn't being officially recognized. But in the back of my mind, I was already planning my next coup d'etat: I would try on a bikini.
Just like before, I snuck into the supply room and took the sexiest, tightest, most colourful, skimpiest, most feminine bikini that I could find. I spent a long time, heart palpitating, trying to choose. I didn't even keep my underwear on when I put it on. It was even better than I had anticipated. I loved it. I wanted to keep it on forever.
As my forays into the storeroom increased in frequency, I feared the danger to my manhood. But I didn't care when I thought about the pleasures of wearing such incredibly sexy clothing. Only when I finished myself did I chew my nails worrying that I had gone too far. Even as I longed for my next level of advancement, I feared that I was becoming a girl. Desensitization was failing miserably. It turned me on somehow to think so. But I realized that what was done was done. I had started the process of effeminization myself, and I knew, as much as I feared admitting it, that I was slowly turning myself into a woman. There was no stopping it. I would resist it as much as possible, but I would fail.
That was when I decided to not cheat anymore. I truly felt ashamed. I would maintain the program. No more enjoying myself. But the program tempted me, too. It offered me pleasure that I could not indulge in. I tortured myself as I forbade myself from satisfying myself with what they supplied me. Sometimes it was impossible, but moslty I succeeded. For a while at least.
One of the crucial moments occurred when, masturbating in a bathing suit when I wasn't even allowed to wear it to bed, I was caught by my mistress. She scolded me, and I never felt such shame. She was truly shocked, and totally unable to understand. I had cheated. She didn't know what to think. She exposed my secret to the leaders, who decided to shame me in front of all my colleagues. I was bucked down to pantihose. I had to work my way all the way back up. I had to be desensitized again, from scratch.
Of course, I didn't mind at all. In a way, I rejoiced because it meant more time for me wearing women's clothes. But I wanted to wear more enticing stuff.
So I did. I wore underwear now. I stole panties and bras. I kept them, too. I needed them. I was much more successful at cheating now, because I had a recourse to better things at night when no one was looking. having to sleep in leotards, I slipped into my panties and bra and worked myself over better than anyone had ever done. I was safe, because I had struck up a friendship with my mistress. She felt remorseful about denouncing me. She wanted to understand, and we had long talks about my ambitions.
"Why do you want to jump levels? I don't understand. Isn't the desensitization working? Don't you want to be a man? Don't you like being a man?"
"Of course I do. I don't know why. I just enjoy it, wearing your stuff."
"What do you mean, you enjoy it?"
"Well, it, uh, excites me. It makes me feel so much more confident, so much more comfortable. And I love the way it feels on my body. I love the way it looks. It's very pretty. I could ask you why you like wearing your stuff."
"I'm supposed to! I'm a woman! You're not, and you're not supposed to wear it!"
"But you must admit that it's very pretty, and soft, and sexy."
"Yes."
"That's all it is. It's just fun."
"Oh. I just don't know what to do about it."
"You don't have to do anything about it."
When she realized that I was stealing her things once in a while, she became angry. But she couldn't denounce me again. So she came to an agreement with me. She wouldn't denounce me, but I would have to stop wearing her things. She would give me her hand me downs. I thanked her with all my heart.
For a long time, I only wore it secretly. I didn't want her to see me in her stuff. I knew she didn't want to see it. She already saw me desensitizing, and knew how pointless it was. We once surprised each other as I was wearing her stuff, and she since became more comfortable. Soon I would start wearing her old underwear in her presence without any problems. We talked about lingerie fashions. She showed me a few beauty tricks. I was her girlfriend now. The big step was in becoming comfortable with her while wearing her underwear.
This went on for a long time. I graduated to my own underwear after a while, and I didn't need hers. I had my own panties and bras. Soon I wore lingerie, and had the greatest time of my life. Unbeknownst to the authorities. I graduated with flying colours.
Then I was captured by the enemy. I am proud to say that the desensitization program worked perfectly. When they tied me down and forced me to wear their lingerie, I laughed and obliged them most happily. They were amazed. They threatened me not to play games, and I didn't care. They stripped me down and shaved me naked, and forced me into a gorgeous lingerie outfit, which I thoroughly enjoyed. I pranced around like one of the girls. I became a girl at last.
Diary: Pining for a Bikini, with a Touch of Denial
To Hell with all of that. For tonight, anyway. Well, not all of it: just the part about wanting to be female. That's not necessarily true. It's a little bit different.
Right now, I'm wearing A__ [my girlfriend]'s little velvety panty and bra set. And I love it. It's so tight, especially around the crotch. And they're so smooth on the inside. Very fun. I'm not well disguised either. I'm only wearing my old baseball jersey over it. So if anyone were to see me right now, they would see my crotch caressed with deep red velvet. I felt like being daring tonight.
Today, while at work, I began to fantasize about wearing a bikini. Out of the blue. It made me very horny. I think I might even have blushed as I sat there daydreaming about it. It made me realize something, though.
I didn't want to wear it to make myself more feminine. Not at all. Or at least not at all consciously. I just wanted to wear it because it's so incredibly pleasurable. I was picturing how sexy women look in bikinis, and how bikinis themselves look so soft and elastic and smooth and colourful. There's something extremely arousing about bikinis. And I remember the excruciatingly good times I had with bikinis in the past. It had nothing to do with becoming feminine, only with having a sexual kick of the highest order. I desperately want a bikini now. I started planning to buy one during my lunch break. How wonderful it would be if I could just stroll into a store, pick one out, and buy it! But it's not like that. I wonder if I have the guts to try it. I wonder what I would say. I wonder if they would say anything. It would probably be painfully embarrassing, but I would have a bikini. A small price (besides the financial one) to pay. Maybe I should.
But anyway, I was thinking of it as an object of pleasure in and of itself, without the idea of femininity attached to it. I wanted it as something that would be lots of fun to wear, not as something that would make me a girl. That implication was not in my mind at all.
Of course, it's inevitable, probably, that I think of it when I wear it. I mean, after all, it is women's clothing. And the more I wear it, you know. . .the more I'd want to wear it.
Goddammit, I want one. I have to think of something!
Meanwhile, I have these undies. . .
Right now, I'm wearing A__ [my girlfriend]'s little velvety panty and bra set. And I love it. It's so tight, especially around the crotch. And they're so smooth on the inside. Very fun. I'm not well disguised either. I'm only wearing my old baseball jersey over it. So if anyone were to see me right now, they would see my crotch caressed with deep red velvet. I felt like being daring tonight.
Today, while at work, I began to fantasize about wearing a bikini. Out of the blue. It made me very horny. I think I might even have blushed as I sat there daydreaming about it. It made me realize something, though.
I didn't want to wear it to make myself more feminine. Not at all. Or at least not at all consciously. I just wanted to wear it because it's so incredibly pleasurable. I was picturing how sexy women look in bikinis, and how bikinis themselves look so soft and elastic and smooth and colourful. There's something extremely arousing about bikinis. And I remember the excruciatingly good times I had with bikinis in the past. It had nothing to do with becoming feminine, only with having a sexual kick of the highest order. I desperately want a bikini now. I started planning to buy one during my lunch break. How wonderful it would be if I could just stroll into a store, pick one out, and buy it! But it's not like that. I wonder if I have the guts to try it. I wonder what I would say. I wonder if they would say anything. It would probably be painfully embarrassing, but I would have a bikini. A small price (besides the financial one) to pay. Maybe I should.
But anyway, I was thinking of it as an object of pleasure in and of itself, without the idea of femininity attached to it. I wanted it as something that would be lots of fun to wear, not as something that would make me a girl. That implication was not in my mind at all.
Of course, it's inevitable, probably, that I think of it when I wear it. I mean, after all, it is women's clothing. And the more I wear it, you know. . .the more I'd want to wear it.
Goddammit, I want one. I have to think of something!
Meanwhile, I have these undies. . .
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