Thursday, June 04, 1998

Fiction: Discovery and Explanation, Fictionalized

[transcribed from a notebook]

Can there be any turning back? I though, as I once more fondled women's underwear. I have this strange fetish. Sometimes, I can rationalize it, and I don't think it's so strange. Women's clothing, and especially underwear, turns me on to an alarming degree. In fact, it turns me on more than thoughts of sexual intercourse do, when I'm alone. I am obsessed with lingerie and skimpy swimwear. And I can't explain why, but I'll try.

There's something sexy about women's clothes, even when they're not being worn. There's nothing sexier than discarded panties, lying on the floor, or a bra tossed thoughtlessly on the back of a chair. Swimsuits too. They're all irresistible. They maintain the femininity that they are designed to accentuate. Somehow, women's clothes are completely alien, something which no normal heterosexual male is supposed to know anything about. They're taboo for men; perhaps that's part of it. Plus, they're so sexy when worn, that it's impossible to avoid associating them with women's bodies. Even so, I would rather look at a girl in her undies than naked.

Wait, maybe I should rephrase that...

But that's the question at hand, isn't it? I have all this womanly attire here, and I get excited looking at it, knowing that it is hers, touching it, caressing it, examining every beautiful crimp and stitch and elastic. What I meant to say above was that I prefer seeing underwear-clad girls than naked girls. But the ambiguity of the sentence presents a different alternative.

How does this stuff turn me on? It's difficult to grasp, even for me. I imagine all of the feminine thaings that go on in there, and looking at it or touching it makes me feel close to it, close to something feminine. It makes me feel like I'm grasping some ideal of femininity, represented by, encapsulated in, women's underwear.

But now, this new idea.

I have caressed women's underwear, held it against my naked body, imagining that I'm touching an ideal woman. I have jerked myself off against the soft fabrics and lace. Is this the next logical step? One curious thought. And I'm stuck in a dilemma of sorts.

“I would rather look at a girl in her undies...” I wrote. How did I get in her undies? Strangely enough, here they are, right in front of me, giving me a huge boner. The idea started so innocently. I accidentally imagine myself wearing women's clothing – wearing the clothes that turn me on so much. How would it feel to wear lingerie, or a bikini? I am looking at my favourite lingerie right now. How much closer to it can I get without wearing it?

But there's a stunning contradiction: how can I wear it without compromising my own masculinity? By wearing such female clothes – clothes that define girlhood in my mind – wouldn't that make me girlish? Put another way: would I ever want anyone to know that I've worn women's clothes-- never mind for a sexual kick-- and still feel socially comfortable as a man? The thought that any human being could discover this terrifies me.

The screw turns tighter. The idea arouses me more than anything ever has. I want desperately to feel that close to femininity. I am afraid for my manhood on one side, but on the other hand my curiosity and fetish get the better of me. Each side feeds the other. So here is my dilemma: do I risk my manhood for possibly the most intense sexual experience of my life? Or do I resist this temptation, and establish forever my manhood as incorruptible?

What would you do?

Every doubt about maintaining my manhood in spite of dressing up like a girl makes my desire stronger. It's like a dare. I can't back down, or else I'm a coward. Ultimately, I fear that there will be no turning back. Even a split-second wearing a bikini, and I will forever crave more. I will never be able to stop. In other words, I'm afraid of it feeling too good.

The thought obsesses me. Is it worth the risk? My lingerie beckons me, tempts me in its effeminacy. My manhood warns me sternly against even thinking about it further. But I can't stop. Perhaps it's already too late, having simply imagined it. The severity of the consequences itself turns me on: these undies are so effeminate, that merely wearing them will instantly metamorphose me into a girl. Now the fear of consequences has totally merged with my desire: Oh God! I Hope so! I will wear this lingerie; I, a man, a heterosexual man, will willingly put on garments of undeniable effeminacy-- the epitome of womanhood, even-- with the intent to become feminine. I no longer fear that wearing women's underwear will make me effeminate-- I hope for it. My thoughts become so subversive that this realization pushes me even further into desire.

I was right. It was too late from the moment the thought crossed my mind.

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