Tuesday, July 20, 1999

Fiction: Getting Interested

I always thought of myself as a good judge of women's looks.  That means that I know what looks good on a woman.  I know what I want to see women wearing.  Now, I can't say that I ever took an active interest in women's fashions, but I know what I like.  Doesn't that sound subversive?  It's as if I can't really be a man if I know anything about women's clothes.  Anyone who knows that much about women's clothes must be effeminate.  It's either too much a female thing for a guy to be preoccupied about, or its likely to rub off on a guy and make him effeminate.

My girl was always very shy, very unwilling to take a chance on something too flashy or revealing.  I liked to shop with her and subtly point out the things I wanted her to wear.  It would have been too strange for me to actively push her to wear something I wanted to see her in.  Like I said, it would appear effeminate of me to take such a keen interest in women's fashions.  My manhood would inevitably come into doubt.  Still, I, and I'm sure most men, know what they want to see.  It made perfect sense to me to have an interest.

As we wandered through the stores, I would picture her in everything, and get inwardly excited at the thought of her wearing certain outfits.  I struggled through the lingerie stores, let me tell you.  I came to appreciate the subtleties of lace and spaghetti straps that show off shoulders, and the softness of silk and satin, how certain shapes set off certain of the more delectable portions of the female anatomy.  Everything was so delicate, accented the delicacy of my woman.  The clothes themselves take on a life of their own, a sexuality of their own.  A nightgown or a brassiere turned me on by itself, exuding a femininity that, combined with my girl's body, would be irresistible.

Naturally, I loved to feel this femininity in my hands, against my body, exploring it and caressing it lovingly.  Every man needs to feel this.  I wanted to surround myself with her, drown in her, submerge myself entirely within her girlhood.  That's what men do.  That's how we get off.  

With that in mind, somehow I got it in my head that by holding her nightie while I slept, it would comfort me, make me closer to her when she wasn't there.  It did.  But I would lose my grip in my sleep, and thereby lose it.  So I had to drape it over myself.  The easiest and most logical way to accomplish that would be to wear it.
Women do this all the time.  Nobody questions their sexuality.

It was such a wonderful substitute.  It made me horny, even.  It was like I was surrounded by womanhood.  I couldn't help but gratify myself in it.  I even brought it into our lovemaking.  After we were done, I would take her nightie and caress it, not letting her have it back.  I told her all about how it made me feel.  She was a little repulsed at first, but she agreed to let me sleep in her nighty every now and then.  She's so lucky: she gets to be surrounded by girl stuff all the time.  I only get these rare moments to slake my thirst.  

I began to truly admire her then.  I envied her.  She could look so incredibly good, she could wear such wonderfully sexy, delicate, beautiful clothing, and feel great about it and herself.  I worshiped her womanhood.  To the point of wanting to emulate her.

She began to dominate in our lovemaking, as I held her in such high esteem.  At first, I would half-jokingly beg her to touch her underwear.  Then she would make me wear it.  At length, it escalated to the point where where she would choose lingerie for ME to wear, and not the other way around.  We frolicked together in her undergarments, celebrating femininity.

Every time I wore her clothes, I dreamed of them shaping me like her.  I wanted to become like her.  I wanted to be a woman, pretty and delicate and sexy.  

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