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.
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.
