Sunday, March 15, 1998

Diary: Bad Things

A__ has referred to having sex, or for that matter, doing anything sexual, as "doing bad things."  Bad, in the sense that she feels like she isn't allowed to do them, that they feel great, but that good girls don't do them.  

I, on the other hand, don't consider these things "bad" in any way, except maybe in that I may be corrupting her by fucking her.  But that's no big deal, really.  It gives me a little bit of a rush, especially when I'm fucking her from behind.  She's so innocent and virginal, except for those times when she's got my dick in her. 
I, on the other hand, have a totally different definition of "doing bad things."  

The similarities, now that I think of it, are remarkable: in a sense, we're both afraid of being feminine.  A__ doesn't wear sexy clothes, because she's afraid of looking slutty, or of attracting too much masculine attention.  When I do bad things, I feel defensive about my femininity, too.  I think we both feel like we're losing virginal innocence when we wear sexy lingerie and miniskirts.  Femininity is somehow dangerous for us.  Understandably more for me.

There is a lot more to it than that.  There's something about femininity that is unquestionably bad for men.  I'm being bad right now.  I'm a very bad boy.  I'm wearing the black satin panties I gave A__ for Christmas.  And one of her white bras (the one that matches these panties isn't here.  Damn!).  My very own garter belt and black stockings.  And a very sexy, short black dress of A__'s.  

It's related somehow to the discovery of sexuality.  I always did hide to masturbate.  Lord knows why.  I suppose it's because every time I masturbated, it was with women's clothes, or at least with women's clothes in mind.  It was a bad thing to do.  Those clothes aren't mine.  I need to fictionalize this.

I'm a young boy.  There's something about girls that's very, very exciting.  They make me feel all funny in my groin.  Even more exciting are their skimpy little outfits.  There's something about the female body that I simply can't understand, something about the shapes and curves that fascinates me, as well as every other heterosexual man.  I often feel an uncontrollable urge to do bad things.  Things that involve girls and my thingie.

I suppose I know, even at this tender age, that I'm a boy, and boys must do boy things, not girl things.  I must assert my identity as a boy at all costs.  Nothing must indicate weakness of any kind.  Girls are icky, and neither I nor my young male friends like them.  They're just so different.

However, there's a little problem.  I can barely even see the contradiction in this most of the time.  My secret urges compel me to wear girls' clothes.  I cannot resist.  At the very least, I imagine it, and yearn for it, while I masturbate.  I know that it's a very bad thing to do.  But I do it all the time anyway.  Because it feels so incredibly good.

It's all so innocent.  Girls are just so pretty.  Something about them.  I can't get them out of my mind.  They're so deliciously delicate, so soft, so curvy.  I start rubbing myself against my besheets, naked, imagining that I'm wearing something outrageously and unequivocally feminine, like a bikini or lingerie.  I feel incredible when I think about wearing women's clothes.  I imagine myself becoming female, or that I will somehow become female if I continue to imagine it, or if I ever actually do wear something feminine.  That only makes me even hotter, and I look forward to becoming a girl, and be pretty and sexy and wear bikinis and silk and lace and dresses and pantyhose. . .

And I get an orgasm.  I'm so young that I don't even necessarily come.  But I realize instantly that I have done something very bad.  I am supposed to establish my masculinity, even at this young age.  But here I am, fantasizing about being a girl, to the point where I want to go beyond just dresses and tresses, and actually wear women's underwear.  I deeply regret my secret crime, and vow to never let such thoughts take hold of me again.  Next time I masturbate, I cannot allow myself to think about becoming a woman.

Of course, it's no use.  There's no way to censor my own thoughts.  I get horny, and I try to think of other things, but I can't help but go back to my bad thoughts of wearing girlish underthings, of becoming a girl.  And always, I finish with shame.  I have been bad.  Again.

Rather than getting better, it gets worse.  I start rolling up my own underwear to make it more effeminate, to try to shape it more like a bikini bottom.  I tie the bottom of an extra-large shirt into a crotch, and pretend that it's a bathing suit.  I'm always so ashamed.  But fantasies and make-believe are one thing.

What once passed off as mere fantasies suddenly becomes much more real.  Once, I only thought of putting on women's clothes, only imagined becoming a girl.  But now, my bad thoughts take me the next logical step further.  I sneak into the laundry basket to borrow my mother's pantyhose.  I curse myself for allowing myself that dangerous escapade, because now I do it more and more often.  

I was so curious.  After so many years of just imagining wearing something girlish, I finally dare to actually try on pantyhose.  I slip it on, over my own underwear, careful not to let that effeminate material actually touch my crotch, at the risk of instantly losing all control, all manhood.  I just want to feel it against my legs.  There is nothing that men wear that can compare to pantyhose.  It's so tight on the leg, so sheer, so soft.  They remind me of women's thighs.  I want to have thighs like that, too.  And I know the risk I'm taking.  I know that if I go ahead with this, I am taking a frightening step closer to becoming a girl.  I do it, because I want to feel like a girl at that point.

Needless to say, I go on to wear pantyhose all the time.  It's incredibly bad.  But what can I do?  I'm powerless.  I think of all the dainty little straps coiling around girlish bodies, and having silky little straps coiling around my body effeminately and turning me into a girl.  I yearn for a bathing suit, for a garter belt, for a bra.  But I don't dare.  Yet.

I'm so very bad.  I start stealing things from a friend's sister.  I finally wear a bikini.  It's fantastic: that tiny stretchy soft tight skimpy little bikini bottom makes me feel more like a girl than I've ever felt before.  I know that it's bad.  But I revel in it.  I crave it.  I want it to last forever.  I want to be a girl so desperately.  I want to experience all female clothing.  I'm completely corrupted, and I know it.  Worse, I love being corrupted.  I know how bad I am, and I want to be the worst I can be.  I am not just curious about wearing lingerie.  I have a pretty good idea of what it will feel like.  I know how wonderful it will feel.  But I can still only dream of it.  I manage a modest collection of female clothing, which I hide under my bed.  I'm ashamed of my bad thoughts, but I cannot help but indulge in them whenever possible.

Last night I dreamed that I was walking around in public when I realized that I was wearing a black mini-dress and blue stockings or pantyhose.  I was totally masculine underneath, and I was quite pleased to be wearing a dress, but I was embarrassed because I was in public, and people could see me.  I passed by my college, afraid that some friends might notice me.  I wanted to hide from them, I wanted to go home and hide.  But I was out in public, for all the world to see, wearing women's clothes.  My legs weren't even shaved, and I could see the hair under the pantihose.  I realized that people were laughing at me, and I was ashamed, but I was also proud and quite pragmatic about the whole thing.  There was no point in my trying to hide, or taking off the clothes I was wearing.  So I might as well try to ignore everybody, and just enjoy my little adventure.  I even remember rubbing my stocking-clad legs together, and reveling in the sensation.  I was sitting down inside a bus on the way home.  

So here I am wearing some of mom's clothes again, because I feel so horny from that dream.  I gotta go now.  And do bad things. . .

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