Friday, November 17, 2006

Diary: Contemplating Coming Clean

Lately I've been fantasizing about ordering some swimwear, lingerie and shoes online and having it delivered in a plain FedEx box to my office.  I would then hide my new fetish items somewhere and indulge in them whenever my wife isn't around.

At times, I feel ridiculous about it.  Will I be able to hide it properly from her?  Will anyone notice where the packages are coming from when they arrive at the office?  How often will I even be able to use it?  Is it worth the risk?  Other times, I am overwhelmed with longing for self-feminization.  Last night, I masturbated in the dining room while browsing for such toys, imagining myself sneaking into the garage and slipping into that glorious silver one-piece swimsuit from Ujena, while T__ sleeps upstairs, none the wiser.  I felt shame when I ejaculated, but I was aroused all night. 

Even now, having made raucous love with her only an hour and a half ago, I gravitate here to ponder my secret feminization.  I have finally developped the setting for my story: the fictional world and characters that I've sought all my life just happen to be centered around my perversion.  I want to write about it, develop a web site around it, possibly make some money from it.  How can I possibly do this in secret?  I love my wife, but I have never had the guts to even hint at my secret desires.  How can we be complete together when she doesn't know this most essential truth about me?

Thus, I have inevitably begun to imagine what it would be like for her to know.  I would tell her somehow, break it to her gently, but unequivocably.  What follows, I can only imagine now.  I present a few scenarios, plausible or not, of how it might shake down.


She's in denial at first.  Then I prove it to her somehow.  She's devastated.  She's horrified.  She cries for days, refuses to speak to me.  She tells everybody, and I'm publicly shamed and humiliated.  She files for an annulment.  Meanwhile, I continue to cavort in my stash of undies, but I lose my intimate companion, my wife.  Remember, I suffered such terrible despair before I met her.  It would be unbearable, if not for my pathetic outlet.


Denial, as always.  She understands immediately what I'm going through, and she's a bit surprised about it, but enthusiastic about sharing some clothes.  She wants us to shop for lingerie as soon as possible, and we immediately romp around in her lingerie.  It becomes a staple of our sex play.

Cautiously Optimistic

She hates the idea.  I have crushed her image of me as a masculine sexual powerhouse.  She's appalled that I've spent so much of my spare time over the years contemplating this sick delusion of mine.  She's livid that I've worn her clothes, and masturbated in them.  She weeps for days.  She hates me.  But she can't stay upset with me, because she loves me.  She forgives me, and learns to understand and support my fetish.  She adapts to it, and eventually finds it delightfully kinky.  She indulges me once in a while, but I have to do her some serious favours to earn the right to do it.  We work out a deal that when I buy her lingerie, I get some for me, too.


She'll be devastated, there's no question.  But she'll come around.  She'll lose a lot of respect for me, and feel terribly betrayed that I never told her before we got married.  She won't understand that I still love her, and that I'm not gay.  She will insist that I stop, that I never do it again, and that I seek help to kick the habit.

I'm almost fantasizing about wearing that silver swimsuit in the bedroom with her.  She'd indulge me to the point of having me shave my body and prance around like a girl.  She'd do my makeup and we'd giggle like schoolgirls as we model lingerie.

Perhaps it's preposterous, but damn would it ever make my life easier.  I wouldn't have to hide (unless I indulge when she's not around), and I could keep my stash in plain view.  However, as I figured above, it's highly unlikely that she'd accept it.  Moreover, the more I sneak around, and the more careless I get, the more I risk getting caught.  Part of the reason I want my own stash is to avoid using her clothes, and therefore avoid damaging or soiling them.  Also, I get to choose whatever strikes my fancy, as long as I can order it inconspicuously.  The drawback, of course, is always the risk of her finding it, or worse, catching me in flagrante.  It's pretty well guaranteed to happen eventually.

In conclusion, I really must come clean, no matter what.  It's going to be extremely difficult, and most likely extremely painful, but it must be done, somehow.  At least by telling her, it wouldn't be so much of a shock, and it wouldn't be so heartbreaking.

Too bad it'll never happen.

What I need to do is lead her to it.  I've been thinking about really emphasising the lingerie for the next little while.  Then I can start admitting at the very least that I have a thing for ladies' underwear.  I can reinforce it slowly, and work up to how I have stolen some before.  I can gauge her reaction to know how far to go.  But I must not stop.  I have to continue until she knows all about it, and is sworn to secrecy.

Thursday, September 28, 2006

Fiction: How I Turned Into a Girl

  1. Started off as normal hetero bachelor.  No girlfriend.  Suspicious ex.
  2. Start going to the gym because ex humiliated me about my body.
  3. Notice a few little physical things (less body hair, softer build, sensitive nipples)
  4. Fag fantasies
  5. Begin to suspect that I’m slowly turning into a girl.  At this point I can still reverse the process, if I can figure out what’s causing it.
  6. I put the pieces of the puzzle together bit by bit
  7. I think about what I’m becoming.  In some ways I’m afraid, but in others I’m excited.  I buy a sports bra, ostensibly because I want to hold down my budding titties, but also because I know how cool it looks on girls and I want to look cool too.
  8. I buy another bra, but this one’s frilly and lacy.   I can’t wear the same one every day, can I?  To avoid suspicion, I buy matching panties and pretend they’re for a girlfriend.
  9. Meanwhile, I pretty well figure out what’s happening.  I do nothing to stop it.  I pretend that I want to stop it.
  10. I embrace my new femininity.

I know it’s unbelievable, because nobody believes me.  I don’t even believe it.  The trouble is that it’s a fait accompli.  There’s no denying that it happened.  This is how I remember it.

I was a normal heterosexual male bachelor.  I wasn’t even very promiscuous.  I tended to have long-term relationships with women who eventually got sick of me and dumped me.  I would settle into long gaps between relationships when I would refuse to have anything to do with women.  I preferred to be alone.  I only started to notice changes several months after breaking up with A__.  We had been dating for about two and a half years. 

I was always very slim.  I never exercised much, so my physique wasn’t muscular.  Don’t get me wrong: I was still pretty masculine.  I still have broad shoulders, and big hands and feet.  I’m just saying that I was no muscleman.  In fact, that was one reason why A__ left me.  It stung me so much when she told me that, that I started working out half-heartedly to try to beef up, even though it was already over.  I didn’t want that to get in the way of a relationship ever again. 

Anyway, I preened myself in the mirror at this time, deluding myself into thinking that I would get big and muscular.  It seemed that my exercise had no effect.  In fact, I looked even softer than I had before I started.  It was very subtle.  The only area that seemed to be getting bigger was my pectorals, but they looked soft and roundish, not hard and square like they’re supposed to.  I was disappointed by this discovery, but resolved to work even harder to become buff.

At the gym, I kept my eye on the men for tips on what kinds of exercise I should be doing, how many sets, how many repetitions, and so on.  Mostly, I checked out the women, watching lecherously as their lithe bodies sweated and strained erotically beneath their form-fitting leotards.  At least, that’s the way it was at first.  I thought I was becoming envious of my male gym buddies.  Or maybe I thought I was becoming awed by them.  I became troublingly obsessed with their bodies.  Actually, it only became troubling when I started dreaming about them. 

Homoerotic dreams are quite commonplace.  However, I had never experienced them with as much frequency as I had lately.  I tried to convince myself that it was only temporary, that I was confused because of my recent break-up.  I tried to concentrate all of my erotic energy towards thoughts of women.  My memories of fucking A__ kept me straight, so to speak, even though they were sometimes painful.

Things gradually worsened.  I noticed that I needed to shave less often.  Even my body hair seemed more sparse.  And still, my body would not become muscular.  My pecs continued to grow slightly, almost imperceptibly.  But they were still soft and round.  They did not harden when I flexed.  I know because I squeezed each while I flexed to inspect them.  I could have sworn then that my nipples looked larger.  They were certainly more sensitive.

Soon, people at the gym began asking me why I shave my legs.  I had to try to persuade them that I never did, that I didn’t know what they were talking about.  And it was true.  My legs weren’t hairless, but they were pretty damned close.  And I hadn’t done anything to them!  Worse, I became self-conscious of my pecs.  I thought they looked ridiculous, and I didn’t want any of the men to laugh at me.  I blushed whenever I saw them.  Frighteningly, my dreams about them became more frequent still, and started catching myself fantasizing about them.  I imagined them sucking my sensitive nipples.

The more I looked at myself in the mirror, the more evident it became: I was growing tits!  And they were becoming more and more noticeable.  How could any girl ever find me attractive now?  I was devastated.  There was no way to escape the truth.  I was not hallucinating.  I was not dreaming.  I couldn’t understand what was happening to me.

Clearly, something strange was afoot.  First things first, though, I had to do something about my chest.  My budding breasts were beginning to bounce when I jogged.  I had to do something to keep them down, but without making it too obvious.  First, I tried taping them down, but it was getting wasteful.  Wearing a tight shirt made them stick out so much that they were actually accentuated.  They even turned me on, they looked so feminine (Yes, I still had some heterosexual urges at that point).  I had to wear loose shirts to the gym, and had to make sure that no one saw me bare-chested.  Even that brought me some pretty strange looks from both men and women.

I had to face the reality of my situation: I needed a bra.  I still clung stubbornly to my manhood.  I bought the plainest, least sexy sports bra I could find.  It wasn’t exactly manly, but at least it wasn’t frilly and lacy or flowery.  It was just plain black.  I was so embarrassed when I bought it.  The sales clerk asked me if I wanted the matching shorts.  I felt my face flush.  She knew I was buying it for myself.  I made a point of not changing at the gym anymore, even though I was so sweaty.  I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone seeing me wearing a bra.  And with my tits, it didn’t look like anything else.  I posed girlishly a few times, because my chest looked so sexy.  I must admit that even then I didn’t entirely dislike them. 

So why was I turning into a girl?  Physically and psychologically, I was getting more and more feminine.  I fantasized about men more than women.  I lost my body hair, had tits, and seemed to be getting softer all over.  I had to find a way to reverse the process while I still could.  How could I face my friends?  How could I ever pick up another girl?

I scoured my entire apartment for clues.  I found nothing out of the ordinary.  Then it occurred to me that my tap water tasted a little funny lately.  I checked the outside plumbing and found some kind of extra pipe on my water meter.  Was somebody pumping something into my water?  I vowed to keep watch over my water meter, to see if anyone ever tampered with it.

Meanwhile, I had to stop going to the gym.  My femininity was starting to show far too much.  I could barely even hide it under my work clothes.  I found myself leering at men.  I began to preen to the mirror as a woman.  I tucked my dick between my legs and pretended to be female.  I stopped shaving my face (or even needing to) and started shaving my legs and my armpits.  Finally, I caved in to the temptation and bought myself a prettier bra.  Then I realized that it would look much prettier with matching panties.  Pretty soon, my underwear drawer overflowed with lingerie.  I looked gorgeous in my new underwear.  It seemed to fit so much better, and highlight all my feminine parts.  At first this was a guilty pleasure, but it soon became routine.  Women’s underwear is so cool.  I began to look forward to coming home from work, so that I could fondle my sexy undies.

When I finally confronted the water meter man, I wasn’t sure that I wanted to give up being a girl.  I asked him meekly if he could look into it, and hoped that he wouldn’t so that I could continue my metamorphosis.

Saturday, April 22, 2006

Fiction: The Truth

The TRUTH about crossdressing

Everybody knows that it's not cool for boys to wear women's clothes.  We learn this at a very early age.  When we are children, we don't understand gender at all, why or how boys and girls differ.  We learn that there is no mixing of the two, and we segregate ourselves by gender.  Boys play with boys, and girls play with girls.  Those who do otherwise are mistrusted.  They are automatically questionable.  And we're all perfectly happy with this: boys don't want to be girls, and girls don't want to be boys.  This is when we establish our sexual identity.

Now, when all of this is firmly engrained in our psyches, we come to accept some fundamental truths.  Primarily, boys are forbidden from doing anything that identifies them with women; and most importantly, boys do not under any circumstances wear girls' clothes.  We do permit the opposite, but only because something about femininity makes it unquestionable. 

This simple truth proves that femininity is dominant.  Masculinity, in spite of its emphasis on strength, size, and power, is hopelessly subordinate to its opposite.  A woman who wears pants is still a woman; a man who wears a dress is not much of a man.  Yet we pretend that men are dominant. 

The TRUTH is that any man voluntarily wearing any article of women's clothing becomes irreversibly feminized.  The degree to which this occurs is directly proportional to the degree of femininity of the article of clothing, and how close it is to the genitals.  Lingerie has much more effect than, say, pink sweat pants.  Everyone, especially men, innately knows this, but suspects that it isn't true.

Given that no self-respecting man would willingly sacrifice his sexual identity, how do men become transsexuals?

The answer is simple: men worship femininity; it is most natural to want to become that which one desires most.  Therefore, men think that they can experiment with wearing women's clothes, but only at their peril.  Those who dare are inevitably tainted.

I know this, because I have experienced it.

I discovered this by accident, as we all do.  I was in my late teens, and furiously obsessed with girls.  I masturbated all the time, fantasizing about their skin, their shape, their curves, their hair, their underwear.  But I was shy, and no girl would want to talk to me.  I contented myself with watching them from a distance, masturbating whenever I had a moment of privacy. 

I worked at a public swimming pool during the summer, specifically so I could ogle the girls in their fantastic tight form-fitting swimsuits.  It would have been unbearable if it weren't so fascinating.  Every now and then, some absent-minded hottie would forget her swimsuit in a locker, and we'd hold it in the lost and found until she returned to claim it.  Most of the time, they returned almost immediately, but every now and then something would remain forever.

I was so obsessed with femininity, and so curious about it, that I impulsively stole a one-piece swimsuit that had been in the lost and found box for the entire summer.  I was drawn to it because I remembered the girl who had worn it, and I couldn't get a vivid picture of her glorious body in it out of my mind.  I wanted desperately to touch it, because it had touched her.  For weeks I did not dare, but I found myself deliberately brushing my hands against it whenever anyone came to claim anything else.  Finally, I could no longer resist, and I furtively stuffed it into my bag when nobody was looking.  All I wanted was to feel it in my hands, and worship her body from afar.

This became a key to my masturbation.  I was in possession of something feminine, for the first time in my life, and it was completely at my mercy.  I felt weak in its presence.  It made me sweat and shake with nervousness.  It was like trying to talk with a girl, only it couldn't reject or ignore me.  I could fondle it whenever I wished.  Inevitably, that was very frequent; and every time I did, I also masturbated.

But unfortunately, there was far more to it.  It was so much more than a talisman of womanhood.  I knew that my worship was abnormal.  Why else was I so careful to avoid detection when I claimed it?  I hid it in my bedroom, rather than leave it out in the open.  I had a secret which I did not want to share with anyone.  Why?

I was afraid of the stigma of being a boy who owned a girl's swimsuit.  It had little to do with the fact that I had stolen it: it was more to do with an implicit betrayal of my gender.  Somehow, worshipping women in this way was unacceptable, and I knew it all along.  I should have been talking to girls, trying to seduce them, exploring their bodies in person.  Instead, I was fondling the things that they wear, and pretending that it was a worthwhile substitute.  But it goes even deeper than that.  My fascination with feminine things was evidence of a lack of manhood.  That's the true reason why I concealed my habit.  The guilt and shame I felt when I thought of my hidden treasure only made my desire stronger.

At first I had planned to only borrow it.  But soon after I took it home and jerked off with one hand as I fondled it with the other, I had already gotten it dirty with my effluvium.  I could never return it in that state, so I happily decided to keep it.  No-one would notice that it was missing, I rationalized.  I could do as I pleased with it, so long as no-one ever discovered my secret.  Having already defiled it, I succumbed to the fantasy I had been masturbating to: feeling that soft material, and what belongs within it, against my insatiable cock.  I wrapped my penis in it and rubbed myself very quickly to the most fantastic orgasm I had ever felt as I imagined rubbing against Her body, encased in this glorious piece of stretchy cloth. 

Thus rewarded, I repeated it time and time again, her delicious curves in my mind every time.  I knew that this wasn't even close to the real thing, and it frustrated me.  I was, as I said, well aware of the shamefulness of my actions.  As often as I succumbed to these bouts of self-abuse, I hated myself for being so shy, and for having such an incriminating possession as this.  I had no confidence that I could change my lot, so I continued.  In a way, I knew that if anyone discovered my secret, they would question my manhood.  What could I possibly be doing with a girl's bathing suit?  Worse, I found myself fantasizing about touching other articles of girls' clothes with my dick.  I desperately wanted to touch lace and silk and fishnet and leather.  I longed to compare the sensation of these things on my penis. 

Somehow, a seed began to grow in my head.  The swimsuit, hidden underneath my dresser, taunted me, questioned my manhood.  My awareness of it, combined with my utter lack of success with girls, constantly reminded me of how gay it was that I owned a girl's swimsuit.  Unfortunately, this only made me desire it more: it was my secret, and it gave me such pleasure, that I didn't even care if I were gay, as long as I had my swimsuit.  It's not like I wore it or anything.  All I did was rub my penis against it.

I began to worry as I rubbed it against myself that I was rubbing away my manhood every time my penis made contact with women's clothes.  The pleasure trumped any worry, and even fed off of it.  I began to stretch it over my crotch, in an attempt to get maximum coverage over my private parts.  It occurred to me then that this must be what it feels like to wear it.  The thought struck me as terribly dangerous, and I came all over myself, my bedsheets, and my girlie swimsuit.

I could no longer rationalize having it in my possession.  It was terrifyingly gay of me to own such a thing, and I knew it.  I kept thinking to myself that I might as well be wearing it.  The thought possessed me.  I was now fatally curious.  I tried to fight the impulse, for days.  Somehow, I became desperate to feel the swimsuit stretched not only over my crotch, but over my entire body. 

I knew what I would be risking.  As a child, I would have thought that it would immediately turn me into a girl, the moment I put it on.  That deep-seated certainty led me to be careful.  I balked several times, and settled for mere rubbing.  I reasoned that by inverting it, at least I would still be touching the outside, which I would be doing anyway if I were humping a girl.  I also thought that by keeping on my own underwear, I would be protecting myself from any adverse affects of wearing it.  At least I would still feel the spandex on my torso.

When I slid it on, inverted, over my gitch, I had to stop before I could get the shoulder straps in place.  I was so shocked by the softness and tightness of it on my body that I knew that I had already given up any pretense at manhood.  Even without the shoulder straps, I was already wearing a woman's swimsuit!  I could no longer pretend that my secret was an innocent stage of boyhood, or showing curiosity in feminine things -- a normal impulse for a man who is interested in women.  No, I was now guilty of performing acts of femininity.  I had already gone too far.  My hands shook as I pulled it off again, without having so much as touched myself.

I nearly wept with shame.  Simultaneously, I shook with anticipation.  An intense feeling of warmth and slitheriness came over me.  I had an intense desire to move my hips in a feminine way.  I had worn a girl's bathing suit!  I was a transvestite!  There was no turning back!  I might as well go ahead now anyway.  I picked it up again, and de-inverted it.  I slid off my gitch, and pulled it onto my naked body.  My hips gyrated as it stretched over my crotch.  I did not hesitate to put my arms through the shoulder straps and pull it all into place.

Immediately, my mind was flooded with images of beautiful girls, including the previous owner of my swimsuit.  I was like them, now!  If the myths of my childhood were true, I would become female within a few minutes.  The idea filled me with such unfathomable horniness that I nearly came.  I felt the spandex on my waist, and the elastic of the leg holes, so much higher than anything I had ever imagined.  Nobody would ever have to know about my secret!  I wear girls' swimwear!  And I absolutely LOVE it!

I didn't even want to touch my penis, because I knew that I would come almost immediately, and end this phenomenal pleasure.  My mind wandered to fantasies of wearing a bikini, or even lingerie.  How gay would that be?  How unbelievably sexy would that be?  I wanted my swimsuit to be even more feminine than it already was.  Now that I knew what femininity was like, I didn't much care for my manhood anymore.  I was now a certifiable transvestite sissy, and there was nothing that I could -- or would even want to -- do about it.

As I frolicked in my girlie swimsuit, and wished most intensely to lose my penis altogether in favour of a nice soft unobtrusive pussy, I understood the truth most vividly: what I knew as a child about boys wearing girls' clothes might not be true in a physical sense, but is certainly true psychologically.  I was now a girl in spirit, if not in body, and I would always be tainted with this experience.

Imagine my embarassment when, the very day after my wonderful epiphany, the true owner of my swimsuit returned, asking if anyone had seen her swimsuit, which she last wore two months before at this very swimming pool.  My co-worker (a girl) poked around the box for it, convinced that she had indeed seen it in the lost and found box.  I was mortified.  The girl was even prettier than before.  I was so gay that I had stolen this girl's bathing suit, and worn it.  She looked at me funny when she saw me blush.  Somehow, she knew.