I spent this evening in Hollywood, enthralled by the multitudes of gorgeous, sexy women. Now I’m wearing the outfit I bought a few weeks ago: my vinyl mini-dress, matching lace garter belt and thong, and fishnet stockings. I didn’t see anyone wearing anything like this, but I desperately need some femininity.
I did come across one of the most exquisitely beautiful women I’ve ever seen. She was slightly oriental, young, and wearing a form-fitting backless red formal dress. Her body was perfect, and she carried herself like a model. The slit in her skirt only came up just above her knee, but it revealed a stunning pair of legs. Exquisite. I should hang around there more often. There are many sleazy lingerie shops along Hollywood Boulevard that I might thoroughly enjoy.
I wish I could describe exactly what it is that femininity does to me. I can’t even describe what it is. The way women move, the way they carry themselves, has so much to it, and yet I can’t even put my finger on how it differs from men. And why do I love it so much? Maybe it’s a certain innate delicacy to their every gesture. Their limp-wristed, butt-wiggling walk. The way their feminine features, from their soft, smooth, hairless skin; their slender arms, shoulders, necks; their soft, rounded bottoms; the exquisitely slim curves of their waists; their round perfect breasts; all billowing out from them without their even knowing it.
And here I am, wearing a fucking dress.
The appeal is so ridiculously strong. I want to be even more feminine right now. I want to make myself utterly female. It’s not good enough that I’m wearing sexy lingerie and sex wear; no, I am fantasizing about wearing my corset bra. I need that extra layer of womanhood. I need something to accentuate my breasts, and taper down my soft, soft, slim, sexy waist. I want to abandon myself to it.
There, that’s much better.
I love brassieres. I love the way the part under the arms looks. I love the way the straps (I’ve removed them from my corset bra because this outfit looks much better without them) accentuate the delicacy of female shoulders. And of course, the titties.
Considering how much I worship women, is it really any wonder that I can’t resist the urge to pretend to be one? Given the chance to dress up like a girl, I can’t imagine how a normal man wouldn’t be overwhelmed with temptation. I love how lingerie makes me feel so sexy. I imagine myself as a girl. I imagine myself recklessly, remorselessly, unhesitatingly abandoning my manhood.
The fantasy is this: I love a girl. I want to be her. I tell her as much when I make love to her. Finally, I beg to wear her clothes. I know she disapproves, but I beg her, and promise to do anything at all for her if only she lets me wear her panties. And so she does, but I must serve her every whim. She allows me the privilege of wearing her panties. I become her slave bitch. She insists that I forsake any pretense of manhood if I want to wear her clothes. I have to get my own wardrobe, and dispose of all my male clothes. I am no longer allowed to wear anything the least bit masculine. Only lingerie, dresses and skirts, and high-heeled shoes. I must completely abandon my manhood. But I already want this, even though I’m afraid to go out in public that way. Eventually my desires prove far stronger than my humility. So she insists that I bring her men to replace me. And I do. And I get men of my own, too. I become a complete transsexual. And I love every second of it.
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