[transcribed from a notebook]
I was 5 years old when my first encounter with non-maternal femininity occurred. I had met Julie at school. Our mothers knew each other, so we were forced into each other's company. You know how it is at that age: it's when we become aware of gender, and associate ourselves to whatever camp we're born with. Julie couldn't stand me because I was a boy. I couldn't stand her because she was a girl. Had nothing to do with anything. Just an us vs. them mentality, making sure you belong with your kind.
There was also curiosity. We had some unsupervised play time and we played doctor. Really it was because I didn't believe that she didn't have a penis. I was sure that everyone did. She had to prove it. Then I had to show her what I meant by 'penis.' There we were, naked, inspecting each other. All of it very innocent.
My mistake was in picking up the wrong underwear. It was too late by the time I noticed. I knew instantly that something was wrong, what with all the frilliness of her panties. “You can't wear that! Those are for girls!” she shouted, and I knew she was right. But it put a seed in my head.
I knew that I had contaminated myself. I had made contact with icky girl stuff. Back then, I wanted absolutely no association with girls. I had to establish my membership in the male gender. There could be no confusion. And here I had worn pinkish frilly girls' panties. I worried that my boyhood was in jeopardy.
Soon enough, I began to think of girls in the normal way. I loved the prettiness of women. I loved the way they looked in their underwear. I began to imagine that I, having worn girls' undies, would be turned into one myself, and that was why I liked looking at women.
I would resist it as much as I could. Everyone kept explaining to me that boys and girls together make babies, and that boys are supposed to like girls. But still I doubted. What if I was slowly turning into a girl? I found myself liking the idea. It was so naughty. I hated myself for it. I tried to resist. But every now and then, I needed to rub my cock while imagining that I was being transformed. I felt such shame when I was done, and vowed never to do it again. I suspected that I only got worse each time.
Julie kept reminding me, too. I made her promise not to tell. I never told her about my fears then.
It was only a matter of time before I started to borrow my mother's pantyhose for my passions. I was tentative at first. I would only touch them. Then I'd put them on over my own underwear. I didn't want to jump right in. Imagine my parents' shock when their son would suddenly appear as a daughter. I tried to resist. As I predicted it got worse. It felt so incredibly good. I knew that I was doomed, a part of me was very happy about it, too. I would renounce my gender for the pleasure this gives me.