The Trouble With Having a Secret Identity

I've been obsessing about one-piece swimsuits for the last few weeks. I get like this when I don't have access to something I want to wear. I can't get it out of my mind, and it dominates my fantasies. Somehow, I always come back to this. I have a bikini dangling in the closet, just begging to be worn, but I'm not interested. I'm sick of it, having worn it no less than a couple dozen times. I'll wear it again, but I want something different now.

Like all feminine clothing, I want to wear it because it accentuates women's shapes. I want to morph into that shape myself. I want to feel what it's like to be female, inside that stretchy, soft fabric. I sweat just thinking about it. My fantasies take off like a rocket: fast, and straight up into the heavens, without a thought about practicality.

The main problem is that I don't have any access to a one-piece swimsuit. My fiancee doesn't have one (although she does have five bikinis, all of which I've secretly worn) so I'm unable to indulge. I'm formulating a plan to buy one, but it's not at all easy for me to do it. I can't allow anyone to know what I like to wear. I know that it's not all that big a deal, but I'm incredibly shy about buying my own girlie outfits. I've done it so many times by now, that you'd think I'd have no problem doing it. Only twice has anyone ever given me any kind of indication that they suspected what I was up to -- a terribly disheartening experience -- and one of those incidents occurred when I bought one of the many one-piece swimsuits I've owned (the other was about a bikini). Oddly enough, it's ok for men to buy lingerie for their lady friends, but not swimwear. Therefore, it's harder to explain. Nonetheless, I have bought as many as three swimsuits at one time for myself, and the clerk was completely convinced that I was buying them for a woman.

There's simply no way to escape questioning glares from clerks and other customers. I can spend many minutes circling the women's swimwear section of a store until I can summon up the courage to enter it. By then, I've already aroused suspicion from store employees wondering what I'm doing. Then there's the long, painful moments while I walk around the racks, looking for whatever it is I'm fantasizing about, not touching anything. Finally, if I've managed to get even that far, I'll start picking things out of the rack, my mouth dry like a towel, my face burning with embarassment. I'll look at colours, styles, prices, and will have a very difficult time deciding which one I like best; even more difficult is making the decision to pick it up off the rack, walk to the cashier's counter, and buy it. More often than not, I'll be standing in line with a bathing suit in my hands, obvious to anyone within fifty feet of me. Even if I buy something masculine to cover it up, it always shows. Finally, since there's no turning back once I'm in line, I'll reach the counter, where the cashier will confront me. Usually, there's no trouble. But sometimes, I'll get a dirty look, or a blush and a giggle. All that remains from there is the trip to the car with the swimsuit in a hopefully opaque bag.

Today I wandered around a sporting goods store, and didn't have the balls to browse the swimsuits. I made note of the section's location when I walked in, took the most roundabout route to get there, and just pretended that I wasn't interested. I did, however, notice that all of them were shaped just perfectly, with the racer back that I so desperately want. A black and red one even caught my eye, but I just walked right past it. I don't even know the price.

I could be wearing a sleek black and red racerback one-piece girlie swimsuit right now. But I'm not, because I'm a coward, and I'm ashamed of my secret fetish.

Eventually, my desire will be so overpowering that it will conquer my fear, and I'll have my precious swimsuit.