Diary: Realizing that I Want to Be a Girl; the Seed, Planted; and, the Mad Scientist

I was right.  I want to be a girl getting fucked.  The idea is to become female, or at least feminine.  It's not about becoming mock-feminine, but the real thing.  I want to have a cunt, so that I can wear all that women wear, but especially so that I can fuck like a girl.  Strangely, it's not that I have homosexual fantasies.  I am a girl in my fantasies.  I have imagined being a fag before, and sometimes it turns me on; but not like girls do--not nearly to the same extent.  No, I want to have a dick in me only to feel like a girl.  I'd rather be a lesbian, because girls appeal to me so much more.  

A__ [my girlfriend] told me about a man she read about in the Enquirer: he was in love with Elle MacPherson, and in his blind obsession, transformed himself into a look-alike of her.  He became a beautiful woman.  The thought excites me.  It reminded me of the man I once heard about on TV who was so good at looking like a girl that he made it into a James Bond movie as a bikini-clad extra.  He has since become a girl.  Those stories simply captivate me.  Then I think of that story I read about the sorority house.  What a fantasy!  To have women teach me how to become like them.  They would make me take hormones to get a feminine body, and I would practice walking around in women's clothing, and acting like a girl.  An irreversible, and tantalizingly slow, transformation.  

But here's what I'm really excited about: A__ [my girlfriend] asked me if I could house-sit for her family while they're away on vacation.  

Imagine that!  I would have access to whatever scraps of clothing she leaves behind for me!  I could go to her house after work, or in the evening, and have my own little panty fashion show.  I could wear that bathing suit that she never wears.  I could wear her lingerie.  I could wear her dresses, her skirts, her blouses. . . anything.  And I would have no fear of discovery.  Total privacy.  I only hope that it comes to pass...

Anyway, I was thinking about another aspect of my fantasy, and it led me to thoughts of bikinis and silky undergarments.  

There is always that notion of becoming female without really knowing it, having the effeminacy sneak up on me.  Wear pantyhose on a dare one time, or whatever, and slowly become hooked for life on dressing up like a girl.  The typical scenario, in other words.  But here's the twist: it's always private in real life, and it's always public in fantasy.  In my fantasies, the girls always force me to wear their panties, or entice me into becoming pretty like them, or whatever; in private, I hide myself to make sure that no one ever finds out what I do.  Clearly, it's because I love it so much that I want it to be, in a way, public; I want to celebrate my femininity all out.  But I can't without suffering the consequences of eternal shame.  In my fantasies, shame is only a momentary accident of my situation; I have to deal with it as I first experience it; or someone is behind the whole thing, tricking me into doing it.  I still love the idea: someone leaves her panties around for me to sniff, and takes all of mine away, leaving me no choice; I have to put them on, but I don't want to take them off; I do it more and more; and it's all from her secret machinations; and I eventually become like her, and she reveals her evil plan, of which I am not surprised, but grateful.  I fantasize, in short, about my entire development as a trannie being some woman's plan to effeminate me.  She always supplied things for me, and induced thoughts of underwear and swimsuits to get me to use them.  Until the moment when I'm totally hooked.

I like this idea.  What if this were the case?  She only needed to plant them once or twice; I did the rest myself.  I convinced myself that I could stop, but I knew deep down that the more I did it, the worse it would get.  I remember thinking one time, while wearing pantyhose or something, that if I don't stop doing this soon I'll start wearing bikinis.  And I remember thinking, deep down, God, I sure hope so.  And I soon did, too.  At another point, wearing a bikini, I probably thought, one of these days, if I don't stop soon, I'll have my own lingerie, and I'll shave my legs, and be very female. And I eventually did that, too.  That's probably why I never could stop for very long: the promise of it getting worse.

My God!  I wore a bikini when I was pretty young!  And God, what an amazing experience it was!  God, how I wish for femininity when I wear women's underwear!  I fantasized always about the prospect of having to wear lingerie forever, and become forever more female.  That's what I want to do right now.  

I can't believe it, but I know that it's true: I have worn lingerie, directly on my body, without anything to protect me from it.  And I once thought that I needed protection, or else I would succumb to abject girlishness.  I wore my own underwear underneath my pantihose, for fear of it compelling me to go further.  If I wear this naked, I thought, I'll want to wear bathing suits and underwear, too.  Pantyhose, I thought, isn't so bad.  But Lord, I wouldn't dare ever wear a bikini or some panties.  I'd be some kind of freakish fag boy or something.  I didn't want to want to wear women's clothing.  Or so I thought.  The thought of wearing it naked made me even hornier, made me want to do it rather than fear the consequences.  I think that that was the point.  I feared that I would become more feminine, not knowing that I was trying to become more feminine.  There was nothing I wanted more.  It was a fantasy: if I do wear this naked, then my fantasy might come true.  At any rate, I couldn't control myself.  I had to wear it naked.  I had to find out how it felt.  And boy, was I ever right: I did end up wearing much crazier things, like bathing suits, panties, bras, bikinis, lingerie, tights. . . And every minute until I started this long diary I hated what I was becoming.  I didn't want to admit that I want to be a girl, that I want to revel in feminine sexuality.  Oh, no!  I've worn women's underwear!  What will happen to me next?  Will I want to wear it again?  (You bet!)  Will I start wearing bikinis, too?  (Oh, God I hope so!)  Will I start wearing it more and more often?  (Oh, if only I could wear it all the time!)  Fear actually fed my fantasies.  It wasn't even fear: it was desire disguised as fear.  Or else I was afraid of my strange desires.


I still have to tell you about my new twist.  But after this fantasy that I dreamed up:

I'm a mad scientist, and I capture some young homeless man for my experiment.  I want to force him to wear women's clothes, and see if I can transform him into a woman, not against his will, but entirely by it.  I would imprison him and leave him only lingerie to wear.  I would reward him for wearing it.  All of this time, however, I would be doing this in the name of science.  I would be getting no pleasure out of it.  
Slowly, my victim would become female, but against his will.  He would be perpetually angry about it.  But he would get used to it, and never go back completely.  But my experiment would seem to prove that I cannot change a man psychologically into a woman.

But he would want his revenge.  Or, from a different perspective, he would want to express his gratitude.  One day, while my guard is down, he would submit me to the same experiment.  He would capture me and put me through exactly what I put him through.  Only I would prove that it is possible to turn a man into a woman.  I would bawl louder than him at first about my plight, knowing what lies in store for me; but eventually I would succumb with all my will to femininity.  I would wear everything he gives me, and become a completely effeminated man, and I would love every second of it.  I would love to have the freedom to wear only women's clothes, and masturbate all over them all day, every day, in an effort to become female.  I would secure a razor and some hormones by which to transform myself.  I would make myself his bitch in gratitude.  I would love it, too.  The End.

Here's the long awaited twist in my fantasies:


I'm the type of guy who cross dresses every now and then for fun.  I like it.  A lot.  But it's my secret.  I started it myself.  Nobody knows about it.  Nobody got me started on it, honestly or not.  I am a self-made transvestite girlie wanna-be.  And I try to become female in private.  And only in private.

Only I get caught.  By my girlfriend.  She has a few options: she can freak out, walk away and tell everyone about it; she can freak out, and keep quiet about it; she can freak out, and have fun with it.  In any case, she knows.  And there are fun possibilities.  

It's hard to write about; but for some reason, the possibility of getting caught exhilarated me today.  Imagine if she finds out, and dumps me, and tells everyone.  Then everyone knows what I do.  Oh, well, might as well come out of the closet, eh?  I'll shave my legs and become a girlie.  And I'll like it.  Or else she'll try to indulge me, because she likes seeing me get turned on.  Yeeeeeee-haw!  

It's very hard to describe my exhilaration.  But I was very excited by the prospect.  I suppose it just reminded me of my stockpile.  Or my stockpile reminded me of it.  I don't know what it is.  I guess it just drives home the fact that I wear women's clothing, and that I have several items of it hidden in my room.