Diary: Writing a Diary

Several months ago, I started keeping a log of my crossdressing sessions. I've been curious about identifying habits, patterns, and themes over time. I had an identical process years ago, but I stopped when it became tedious to record all the details after the fact.

Recently, I realized that it would be sort of fun to describe at least some of these sessions publicly. There's some value to others in reading about my real-life experiences; and there's a certain thrill I get out of writing about it. There's a huge amount of fiction out there that purports to do this, but veers into fantasy. This is going to be quite a bit more boring, but will likely include some description of what I'm fantasizing about.

Enjoy!

A Pleasant Dream

Last night, after a rare lovemaking session with my wife, during which I fantasized about being the woman, I drifted to sleep remembering my old fantasies about becoming a lesbian.

I dreamed about T__ dressing me up in a pink bralette and panties, in good humor. I think I even had on a blonde wig for a while. I was happy and relieved that she accepted me like this. I put on a t-shirt and pants over it so that others wouldn't know, and I asked T__ if my bra straps were visible. "Of course your bra straps are visible, everybody can see them, silly!" she answered, not at all bothered by it. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw the wide, satiny straps on my shoulders, not even close to being concealed by the unusually wide neck of my t-shirt. In retrospect, I know that women's t-shirts are often cut that way, so I suppose I might have been wearing one of those. In the dream, however, the point was to cover up my feminine undergarments, but even still I wasn't much bothered that my bra straps showed, because T__ was on board. My mother was visiting, and I still didn't want her to know, so I did hide from her, but I wasn't stressed out about it. I think I realized that I couldn't prevent her from seeing me, so I just happily went about my business, bra straps exposed for all the world to see. Then I met a famous woman singer/songwriter who doesn't really exist, and fawned all over her, telling her what a huge fan I was of her music, and how much influence she had on me in my early adulthood. I was ever conscious of my femininity, and happy and free and proud of it, even as I chatted with this famous person.

It was a wonderful feeling, and I'm still bathing in its afterglow!

24 hours En Femme

My wife is on a trip this weekend with the older kid. I'm at home taking care of the baby. I thought this would be an ideal time to spend as femininely as possible! The baby wouldn't know the difference.

My plan had been to head over to Target after dropping off my beloved family at the airport. There I would find some casual leggings and a sports bra that I could wear throughout the day. I had toyed with the idea of wearing a dress, but I worried that the baby might be a little confused by it. I could, however, wait until he went to sleep, then cavort around in a dress and heels to my girlish little heart's content!

That's exactly what I ended up doing. Since my last store excursion, which was almost disastrous in how anxious I felt, and how much time I spent staring at bathing suits trying not to look creepy, I learned not to give any fucks. Somehow, having the baby with me in a shopping cart made it all so much easier.

I took a bit of time choosing my sports leggings. It was hard to find exactly what I was looking for. I struggle to explain it now, but I wanted something sleek and feminine, with sheer parts and/or a floral pattern. I wasn't sure if I wanted capris or full pants. I was hoping for something with straps on the calves. I also didn't want anything too obviously feminine, to avoid giving the baby something to remember. Black is best, but I wanted some zing, something bright, or at least something not too plain. I found a few with a floral pattern, but there were none in my size. I grabbed something light blue and gray, capris, and figured that would be good enough.

The sports bra was quick and easy. I wanted something strappy, and I found one with thin double criss-crossed straps. I was tempted to get one with a zipper in front, but the straps got the better of me.

Last week, I had seen some velvety little dresses on a rack near the front of the store. That's what had gotten me thinking about getting one. It looked perfect from what I could tell at a glance. Now that I was in the store, looking at it, my dream came true. This rack was right in the front of the store, on a busy walkway. People definitely saw me looking at dresses, and putting one in my cart. I didn't care!
I nearly left at that point, but I couldn't just wear a dress without tights! I went looking for the hosiery, but it wasn't with the intimates. None of the panties got my attention, but I did consider getting a shaping girdle. I finally found the hosiery. I was going to get plain black tights, but I was presented with such a glorious variety that I spent more time looking at my options.

Lo and behold, among the tights and pantyhose, were leggings! I found some that looked like they had sheer windows below the knees, and snagged them. I also found sweater tights to go with my dress. My mission was complete.

I headed home, and immediately put the baby down in his play pen, so I could go change. I had brought in my stash of girlie stuff, and laid it all out on the bed. I put on my trusty black panties, and squeezed into my new sports bra. It was a little tight getting it on, but it was comfy. Then I tried on the leggings.

The leggings are black polyester and spandex, with interesting panels of different textures. I've seen women wearing similar leggings, and have longed to wear some myself. They're nice and tight, and very comfortable. I wasn't sure whether I should keep the sports capris, but I figured I'd try them on anyway. They're more comfortable than the leggings, by far, but somehow less appealing. It's so hard to choose! I think I want them both! I figure I'll wear the capris tomorrow, since I have most of the day until I pick up my wife and kid from the airport.

I spent the day with my baby, wearing a boring old t-shirt over my sports bra, but otherwise going about my day, only dressed in women's clothes (except for the t-shirt). I wasn't brave enough to go out like this, unfortunately. I decided to put some pants on over my leggings to take the baby out for a stroll. I found myself swinging my hips as I went. I worried a little that my bra was visible under my shirt. I also knew that nobody would notice, even if it were. I passed by several neighbors, and nobody seemed to notice anything at all. If they did, it wasn't apparent. In any case, I was too comfortable to care!

I put the baby to bed for the night, and changed into my lovely velvety dress, with my sweater tights and ridiculous glittery wedges. I've been hanging around the house, doing laundry, with this outfit on. I went outside a couple of times in it to take out some trash. I don't care if anyone sees me! In fact, I almost want the world to see me like this, because I feel so comfortable!

I've had a serene experience so far. The plan is to sleep in my pink nightie, then wake up and put on my sports bra and capris, and spend most of the day en femme again. By noon, I will have spent 24 hours dressed in women's clothes. This is something I've fantasized about for years! And finally, I've been able to do it!

Contemplating a New Swimsuit

My zip-up scuba one-piece

I currently own at least five swimsuits. Four of them are bikinis, and the fifth is a one-piece that zips up in the front. I tend to gravitate to two of the bikinis when I'm in the mood for some femininity, but I've got a soft spot for one-pieces in general, going back to my earliest dalliances in women's clothing.

A lost favorite. (sigh)

Over the years, I've usually had a go-to one-piece swimsuit that I'd wear about as often as my favorite bikinis. For some reason, there's always room for one in my fantasies. Long ago, in my formative years, I had a mind-blowing epiphany upon wearing a one-piece swimsuit, and the memory of it has stuck with me. In early adulthood, when I finally embraced my fetish, I celebrated by wearing a one-piece swimsuit.

Sexy Grommets

Unfortunately, now that I've fooled around with bikinis and lingerie and sexy shoes, one-piece swimsuits often disappoint me. Often, I'll fantasize about one and put it on, but while I'm wearing it I'll inevitably imagine a bikini, and the fantasy will turn to that instead. The one I have now is just not doing it for me, and it never did the way I'd imagined it would when I bought it. Others I've had have not had this problem. I could go back to them over and over again, and rarely slip into a fantasy about something else. It's hard to pin down exactly what it is that makes some of them more fun than others, but I suppose that's true of just about any category of garment I like to play with.

Metallic and Pink...

Therefore, I'm pining for a new one-piece that can fill that hole in my closet.

Not actually a swimsuit

At this point in time, with my limited opportunities to enjoy womanhood first-hand, it strikes me as foolish to do this. At best, I'll only get to wear it once a week, and that's likely to be pre-empted by a bikini or lingerie a lot of the time. So I don't want to spend much money on it, especially if I don't end up liking it. My wife doesn't own one, and even if she did, it's nearly impossible to borrow such things without leaving tell-tale stains.

Loving the ruffles

Looks like fun

Still, part of the fun of this fetish is trawling swimsuit vendors' websites and fantasizing about wearing the ones that catch my eye. I'm partial to blue and pink, and metallic, and unusual cutouts. What I love about one-piece suits is that they're ostensibly not as overtly sexy as bikinis and underwear, but they're still quintessentially feminine. There's no mistaking it for anything a man could ever wear. I used to fantasize that the tight fabric would shape my body into a woman's hourglass figure. With the style these days being quite different, many attractive one-piece suits no longer even cover the waist, but that makes them in many ways even sexier.

Cute cut-outs

It's always hard shopping online for such things, because it's hard to find the right fit. I struggled with the fit of my yellow zip-up one-piece, and actually had to return it for one that fit better. Even in person, I've bought one-piece suits that were far too small. The tightness of a small swimsuit can be fun, but there's a limit where it's just impossible to even put it on. So I might even dare to buy it in person to be sure that it's something I'll enjoy. Or maybe I'll get more than one, and hopefully at least one of them will work out.

Even if it doesn't, I'm such a sissy, buying women's swimsuits for myself!

The Essence of the Feminization Fantasy

At its root, this feminization fantasy is a confusion of cause and effect. As rational adults, we all know that wearing feminine clothes does not cause one to become female. And yet, that's precisely the core of the fantasy. The very fact that there is a strong social stigma against men wearing women's clothes suggests that it's true. Even if it is impossible, everyone just knows that wearing women's clothes irreversibly feminizes men.

It's a feedback loop: once you begin, no matter how innocently, you start to spin uncontrollably towards becoming a woman. All it takes is a small taste to get started.

At first you're afraid of the consequences. You know that it's physically and physiologically impossible to become a woman by wearing women's clothes. Still, you proceed with caution. Nobody can find out about it. You start slow, just in case. You know for sure that some things you'd never, ever dare to do, because that would be going too far. But what's the harm in imagining it?

Pretty soon, you find yourself compelled to do that last thing you fantasized about, and the boundary becomes something else. Then the new taboo becomes key to the fantasy, and soon after, reality. By the time you realize that you're in a tailspin, it's much too late. You realize that the only thing that turns you on is becoming feminine. You try to turn back to more normal tastes, dial down the femininity a bit, maybe purge your sissy wardrobe in shame. Inevitably, you come back to it, stronger than ever, boundaries be damned.

Now you know you want to be a woman. The idea paradoxically gives you a massive erection. You dream of sucking cock, getting fucked in the ass, and dressing like a slut at all times. As you consider transitioning and fulfilling your dream, you look back and wonder: didn't you always want to be a woman? Weren't all of those experiments over the years just your repressed femininity struggling to come to the surface? Or was it your dressing up that developed your femininity over time?

So while it is true that wearing women's clothes won't make a man physically become a woman, it certainly does affect him psychologically.

My Wife's Panties

My wife is beautiful and sexy. In the mornings and evenings, she tends to strip down to her panties and walk all around the house doing mundane things. She doesn't even do this with the slightest intention of arousing me (at least, not consciously). Naturally, it drives me crazy with lust.

When we fool around, I love to get started with her still in her cute little panties. I like to rub up against them, and feel the fabric on top of her naughty bits. Then when we fuck, I imagine that I'm her, prancing around in her panties, and taking a big fat cock inside her pussy and having her way with it.

Of course, when she's not around, it's a constant struggle to not raid her panty drawer. But I can't help myself. As much as I enjoy my own stash, and there's a huge thrill to having my own panties, she has much more variety. I try to avoid playing with it because I don't want to arouse suspicion, but sometimes I fall hopelessly under a spell, and I must wear a particular one.

For the last few days, I've been obsessed with these silky black tangas with lace trim. She looked so unbelievably hot in them, and I just have to play with them. I'll be quick, but it'll be so worth it.

Insatiable

While writing that last post, I mentioned knowing that if I had no boundaries, I would wank myself to death. I thought I had written about this before, but searched for it throughout my writings, to no avail. I wanted to link to the article I thought I had written, as a case in point. But there is no such article. Therefore, here's a little story about my insatiability when it comes to feminizing myself.

One evening, with my wife out of town for a bachelorette party or some such, I had decided to make full use of her absence to engage in as much girlish debauchery as I could handle. There was so much that I wanted to wear, and in only one night, that I hardly knew where to start. I have limited ability to recuperate at my age, so every wank must count.

Usually, when she's not far away, I have limited time to enjoy my femininity. I browse around the web for things that interest me for a while, which normally feeds some specific fantasy. I then fulfill it by wearing whichever girlie item fits the fantasy best. Sometimes, I'm already obsessed with some specific garment, and develop an elaborate fantasy around it. In any case, it's over after one wank, so I prefer my fantasy to match what I'm wearing, to maximize my pleasure. At times, this isn't enough to satisfy me, for various reasons. I actually keep a diary of every "incident", including what I wore, how much I enjoyed it on a scale of 1 to 10, and a brief description of the circumstances. Merely documenting this after the fact often launches me into another fantasy, so I find myself wanking again in another garment. This second orgasm is usually much harder to achieve. Interestingly, when making love to my wife, I can never muster the lust to come twice.

On this particular evening, I knew that I had all night. I was ravenous for femininity. I had a plan. Since I had no fear of interference, and total privacy for many, many hours, I decided that I would spend the evening wearing nothing but women's clothes, and sleep in my wife's little slip dress that she left behind under her pillow. I had fantasized many times about doing this, but inevitably my playtime would end after succumbing to the temptation of orgasm. This time, I was determined to at least see how long I could go, and try to avoid masturbating.

I whet my appetite browsing the web for the usual: pictures, stories, captions, videos, and so on. I probably wore swimwear while doing so (my records are sketchy, so I'm not sure). I tried to hold out, but probably lasted only an hour or so. In spite of my ambitions, I achieved my first climax quite quickly after all that preparation. In fact, it was too quick to be fully satisfactory. Thinking of my original plan, rather than giving up right then and there, I changed into a bikini. The thought of actually executing on my plan was so arousing that I couldn't resist coming again, soon after putting it on.

By now, I was already tired. My penis was sore from having climaxed twice. With resignation, I cleaned up the mess, and thought my valiant attempt had no hope of continuing. But there again was that thought: now that I've gotten it out of my system, I can surely wear women's clothes without having to masturbate. This would be somewhat less fun, but satisfying nonetheless, on an entirely different level. I slipped into my corset, stockings and high black boots, figuring that if I was going to do this, I might as well challenge myself.

I settled onto the sofa in my lingerie to watch a movie. I spoke to my wife on the phone. The whole time, I counted my blessings that I could wear such an outfit. I lounged happily in my feminine attire, fondling the lace of my panties and the smooth nylon of my stockings, snapping my garters, and adjusting my bodice. Before long, and much to my delight, I gave in to temptation yet again.

At this point, I would normally start feeling a little ill from all the strain, and more than a little over-satiated. And so it was then. But I had a seed in my head. I felt like I could go no further, but by now I was wondering if I even could cum if I tried. I struggled a bit to think of what I'd want to wear, but the very idea of being such a sissy that I could still climax after everything I had already done, spurred me on. I chose my favorite swimsuit, and carried on, knowing that I still had to somehow sleep wearing panties and a nightie.

It was less difficult than I had thought. It was somewhat painful, as with an overworked muscle, and it hurt to even have an erection, but the overload of femininity was too much to keep me from succeeding. I came again!

It was late by now, and I was exhausted. I felt like there was no amount of masturbation that would cure me of this fetish. All I had to do was allow myself to fantasize, and I could keep cumming over and over again. The idea that this dirty little fetish was impossible to satisfy made me want to come yet again! Somewhat unnerved, I slipped into the nightie and panties as planned, brushed my teeth, and went to bed, excited about sleeping en femme. I was drifting off to sleep, and just wanted to enjoy some sweet girlish dreams. I tried not to think about what I was doing.

It was no use. I woke up in the middle of the night with a massive erection, throbbing with the dull pain of muscular fatigue. I would not be able to sleep until I wanked it out, so I once again satisfied my urges.

By now there was no longer any doubt. I had discovered that there is no practical limit to my arousal when indulging my feminine fantasies. I could literally wank myself to death if I allowed myself to. It was also both arousing and disconcerting to confirm that my ample appetite for straight heterosexual intercourse was far smaller than that for feminization. This was not surprising. That the latter was limitless, was.

By morning, I was so worn out and so sore that I couldn't imagine how I would explain to my wife why I wasn't eager to fuck her when she returned. I schlepped around all day in a fog from my exertions of the night before. I had only now, after all these years, discovered the magnitude of my problem.

What Could Have Been

Often when I make myself feminine, I think back to some decisions I made years ago, and how different my life might have been had I done things differently.

I had been sharing the rent on a house with a co-worker some years ago, and secretly prancing around in all sorts of lingerie and swimwear. He had no idea. Still, I felt frustrated by my lack of freedom to express my feminine side all throughout the house. When he was out of town, I would take advantage of the opportunity without any fear of discovery. When the time came to move out, I decided that I would get a one-bedroom apartment and live alone, just to allow me the pleasure of living in girlwear whenever I wanted. I imagined ordering lingerie for delivery to my front door on a regular basis, with hardly any risk of discovery.

Pretty much as soon as I moved in, I met a girl, and she was coming over all the time, and we were having sex so often that I could hardly keep up. This naturally left me with very few opportunities to dress up. This same girl is now my wife, and the mother of my child.

The sissy thing to have done would have been to either get rid of her or involve her in my fetish for women's swimwear and lingerie, rather than keeping it secret. She might have stuck around if I had told her or shown her, but it doesn't matter: the point would have been to choose femininity over masculinity.

My garter slip

Today, while she was out, I risked wearing my garter slip, stockings, and shoes, for the first time since she almost caught me. While I luxuriated in the tight, soft fabric, I fantasized about how if not for her, I could have chosen a very different path. I imagine myself wearing lingerie every day in that old apartment, expanding my collection of panties and bras and bikinis and shoes and skirts and dresses. I would have masturbated ecstatically in a garter slip like this one, only instead of quickly cleaning up, hiding my girlish garments, and immediately getting back into my male clothes, I would have cleaned up and immediately put on some simple satiny everyday panties and gone on with my day. I know that if I had no boundaries, I could happily wank myself to death, never tiring of the femininity of it all. Eventually, I would have come out of the closet, so to speak, and become proudly transsexual.

These thoughts brought me to a quick but satisfying climax. And it's not the first time. Even now, as I retell it, I'm getting horny again.

Alas, it was not to be. And yet, I still think I made the right choice. I wouldn't give up my "normal" life, with my loving wife and beautiful baby, even for that. But I can still have fun now and then, pondering how it might have been.

The Trouble with Secrecy

I very recently became a father. Since my wife is in no condition to have sex yet, I have no other outlet for my raging desires other than some barely satisfying dry humping, and my ever-rarer secret girlification sessions.

Of course, this would be much easier if only she knew and approved of my intense desire to become feminine, but she doesn't, and I'm not ready for her to find out, especially now. Therefore, my ability to indulge, and even to write about it, is severely curtailed.

I would love to let her in on my secret, but it's so far past the point of keeping a secret now that it's a terrible lie. I truly and deeply love her, and my new baby, and I wouldn't dare jeopardize my relationship with them both. As much as I love to fantasize about being a girl, my public life has time and again proven to be more important to me. Forced to choose, I choose my family.

All the same, I am unable to give up my compulsion. I sneak into a bikini and heels the moment she leaves the house, whenever I'm sure she'll be gone for a while. And I love every second of it! I don't think I can ever completely give it up, but I can't imagine that it's going to remain this easy to hide my habit from my growing family forever. Therefore, I have to indulge while I still can.

Almost Caught

My wife has a reasonably predictable schedule. Since I got her pregnant, she's been going to a particular place for some exercise twice a week. I have often taken advantage of these 2-hour absences to frolic girlishly in my secret stash of lingerie and swimwear. As I noticed her preparing to leave a couple of days ago, my heart leaped with anticipation for the fun I was about to have.

Janet Leigh wearing a gorgeous teddy in A Touch of Evil

No sooner did she leave did I retrieve my secret stash from its difficult-to-reach hiding place. I eagerly stripped out of my male clothes, and pondered my many feminine options. I had ivory satin on my mind from a scene in an old film noir I had just watched, so I chose my matching panty and bra set. It wasn't really anything like in the movie, except for the color and fabric. I put on my fishnet pantyhose and my little black dress, and finally my lovely 4 1/2 inch heels.

I figured I had a plenty of time to savor my femininity, so I pranced around like this for some time. I made myself a cup of tea, and tried (but failed) to take pictures of myself in my outfit. I love how my shoes make my ass stick out, and how lovely it looks in my LBD, and I wanted to capture it for posterity. I fiddled around with this for a little while and gave up because I wasn't getting the photos quite right.

By now I had worked myself up into quite a lather, so I retired to the bedroom, and wanked. I had just cleaned up the semen, and taken off my dress, when I heard the unmistakable sound of keys fiddling in the front door! And here I was in the bedroom with my stash on the floor, wearing high heels, fishnet pantyhose, satin panties and a bra! I had to hide myself and all my stuff, and fast.

I picked up my stash, and locked myself in the bathroom. I frantically stripped out of my girl clothes, as quietly as possible, and shoved them into my overflowing secret stash box. I had trouble closing it properly because of the haphazard way in which I threw everything in. Once I got it to close and snapped it shut, I noticed a baby blue ribbon from my garter slip sticking out the side. So now I had this ridiculous box, with nowhere to hide it in this small bathroom! She would undoubtedly see my stash box, and wonder what it is and why it's there, and what the blue ribbon is sticking out of it. I was carefully shoving it into a cabinet, the only one where it might fit and not be immediately obvious, when she finally came looking for me.

"Honey," she said from the other side of the door, "you seem to have lost your clothes. What are you doing?"

"I'm taking a crap," I replied, voice quivering, much too close to the door, still trying to conceal my stash box, and making all kinds of suspicious noises.

"Are you O.K.?"

I muttered something in response, and heard her walk away to the other bathroom. "You're funny," she said. I took this opportunity to finish hiding my stuff, put on a sweaty t-shirt I had hanging on the hook on the back of the door, and came out of the bathroom. I wasn't wearing anything but the shirt. She came back as I was putting my pants back on.

"What's wrong," she asked, concerned. "You're so pale! And you're all clammy. Are you sick?"

"Uh, yeah. It must have been something I ate."

"Hey, didn't I make the bed earlier? Did you take a nap or something?"

"Umm, yeah, I was feeling bad,so I had to lie down for a bit."

I couldn't believe I was getting away with this so easily! My heart was pounding as she comforted me in my presumed sickness. I think I was trembling a bit, too. She gave me a couple of almonds to eat, which she had read are good for digestion, and which she happened to be munching on at the time. They were like ashes in my mouth. "I need some water," I said, and stumbled to the kitchen, relieved that she was following me. I poured myself a glass from the tap, and gulped it down. Even that was difficult, but it did help me play sick.

"What happened to you?" she asked. "I leave for half an hour, and all Hell breaks loose!"

Things settled down after that. She's 8 months pregnant, and no longer feeling very mobile, so she sat on the sofa to watch some TV and catch up on Facebook. This gave me a chance to eventually move my stash box from the bathroom to a closet, where I could hide it a little bit better and less conspicuously. But then I worried about it constantly for the next few hours, and eventually moved it somewhere better. I couldn't put it back to its normal place without making a ruckus.

My wife isn't stupid. She surely suspects that I was jerking off in her absence. But bless her heart, she hasn't mentioned it since. This stage of her pregnancy makes it pretty hard for us to be properly intimate, so she knows I'm losing my mind from lack of sex. But at least she still has no idea that I'm a sissy. Somehow, especially now, it would be disastrous if she found out.

The icing on the cake: she now habitually wears some of my t-shirts to bed, because her pregnant belly is so huge that her own pajamas no longer fit around it. Funny how that works, isn't it?

"I miss my clothes," she whines as we cuddle in bed.

"What's the matter? You don't like mine?"

"You don't have dresses, skirts, and pretty shoes!"

Considering how shell-shocked I was (and still am) about that day's incident, I couldn't even look her in the eye as I freaked out inside. "Do you wish I did?" I asked, not hopefully, but accusingly.

Sadly, and predictably, she answered, "No."

Fiction: Forbidden Knowledge

When I was a boy, I learned to think of everything to do with women to be forbidden.  I feared it, as did all of my peers.  It was improper for boys to ever see girls' underwear.  There were very strict social norms against boys having anything at all to do with feminine things.  This makes sense: as a child, you're still trying to form a sense of identity, and gender is one of the most immediately comprehensible aspects of it.  It's like a lifebuoy that we cling to, to assure us of who we are.

So imagine what it must have been like to have to wear girls' tights for a school play, so our kindergarten teacher could have us all dressed like flowers.  Now, suddenly, it was ok for boys to wear girl clothes.  But deep down, I knew that it was subversive.  It was even comical, but not so embarrassing since all the boys had to do it.  

I, for one, had tasted the forbidden fruit, and I wanted more.  It planted a seed in my head which in a few years' time, when puberty started to hit, would grow like a weed.

It is forbidden for men to wear women's clothes.  Those who do are cast out of polite company.  It's simply unacceptable, deviant, and perverse.  But why?

First, it was pantyhose.  They seemed innocent enough, since I had already effectively worn some in kindergarten.  But this time, it was more serious.  I wanted to.  And when I did, it felt so good.  I learned about how it feels to have sheer nylons on my legs.  This knowledge is forbidden to boys and men.

From there, my thirst for knowledge only expanded.  I knew full well that it was perverse, and at that young age, at the beginning of puberty, sexual matters are secret; so I did this entirely out of sight.  Nobody would ever know.  I felt guilty about it, too.  But I always wanted more.  Then I fantasized about wearing other forbidden things.  There was far more forbidden knowledge to be learned, and I needed to gain some experience in order to fully appreciate it.  I developed an elaborate fantasy about how I'd have to wear pantyhose hundreds of times before I would be permitted to wear leotards, and those thousands of times before I could wear a bathing suit, and so on.  This was partly a way to rationalize that I did not have access to these things, and would have to leave it to some distant, unimaginable future.

Soon enough, I did try on a leotard.  But before that even happened, I borrowed my mother's swimsuit.  Now I was in trouble.  There was no turning back, and I knew it.  I was deeply ashamed, but that didn't stop my intense cravings.  I would look at pictures of sexy girls, and imagine wearing their bikinis.  Now I was actually stealing things from people, and keeping it hidden in my room.  Just about every day, I would masturbate in something girlie.  Meanwhile, I was slowly becoming a man.

By now, my desire for lingerie was overpowering, yet it remained always out of my reach.  Eventually, I did steal some panties, and wore them often.  I was gaining lots of knowledge and experience.  I could put on a bikini in the dark under my bedsheets.  But it was seldom good enough.

I was so confused.  Sometimes, I would wonder if I were actually a girl, and whether my parents and doctors had made some terrible mistake and made me a boy.  But I knew this wasn't so.  At the same time, I was shyly obsessed with images of girls in lingerie and swimwear.  I fantasized all the time that they would force me to become like them.

By early adulthood, I had been with girls, and secretly worn their underwear.  I started buying myself things, like lingerie and swimwear.  I had accumulated quite a collection.  I had learned more and more, to the point where I had become a sort of expert in feminine undergarments.  I fantasized about ordering lingerie online.  I made laundry lists for myself.

One girlfriend actually bought herself some lingerie and left it in my room, since she was afraid of what her mother would think.  I wore it at least 10 times more than she did.  When she and her family went away on vacation, and I was given the responsibility to water their plants, I took the opportunity to try on just about everything she owned.  No man should know so much about women's clothes.  Especially not what it feels like to wear them.

Relationships with women lasted long, but not forever.  I would start feeling guilty about wearing their underthings while their backs were turned.  I found myself focusing on my fantasies instead of finding new girlfriends.  Wearing lingerie and swimwear was so satisfying that I hardly needed any fulfillment from any woman.  I moved into my own place, and played with my outfits in secret, alone, just about every night.

I developed fantasies of becoming a girl.  I wrote all sorts of them down.  I read other people's fantasies, too.  I learned a lot about men who want to become women.  I bought a bustier, and a patent leather halter mini-dress.  I owned about 5 swimsuits.

I moved away to a different city, and began to spend lots of my extra cash on women's clothes.  I became obsessed with shoes.  I had decided that I knew enough about wearing girls' clothes that I could wear only them when I was home alone.  I would sleep in nightgowns.  I would wear skirts and corsets and stockings and pumps while cooking dinner, watching TV, or vacuuming.  My little French Maid's outfit was particularly fun for doing chores.  This is when I felt ultra-feminine.  I still wanted more.

I started wearing only women's underwear, all the time.  I wore them to work under my boy clothes.  In winter, I would wear a bra, which nobody could see because of my thick outer layers.  I threw away all my boy underwear in a moment of passion.

Soon I started keeping my legs shaven.  Then my chest.  It made the girl clothes feel so much sexier.

Then I found out about a certain questionable drinking establishment where men were encouraged to dress like women.  They provided change rooms and lockers, so you could travel there as a man, and conceal your true colours from the outside world.  Now I saw how much more I had to learn.  Some of my fellow patrons were gorgeous.  I was terribly manly looking.  I had some competition.

As I improved my womanly looks, I learned to spurn the advances of men.  For God's sake, I'm not gay!  Sure, I fantasized often and guiltily about furthering my forbidden knowledge, but apparently I wasn't ready yet.  I longed for the taste of cock, which only women know.  Everything I learned about women made me want to know more.  But after years of happily pushing the limits, I had finally found a new and significant barrier.

People knew now that I was a transvestite.  I stopped caring.  I would wear androgynous clothes to work.  Sometimes I'd have a bit of makeup on.  It was difficult for a while, but I got used to it.  I hardly needed my male wardrobe anymore.

Determined to learn my lesson, I practiced with some dildoes.  I had misgivings about putting them in my ass at first, because most women don't do that, but I figured I'd hardly be feminine if I couldn't have a penis inside me.

Around this time, as I whimsically looked into how I could get a sex change, I discovered that some doctors make a distinction among transsexuals: those who genuinely are women trapped in men's bodies, and men who love to make themselves feminine.  The distinction is remarkably clear.  The former have always been outwardly feminine, and have no trouble pretending to be girls.  The latter are actually very masculine, typically engineers, policemen, soldiers, or other masculine professions, and struggle to come off as women.  Furthermore, the former want to be women so they can have sex with straight men.  They are thoroughly homosexual.  The latter are interested in women only, although they fantasize about sex with men, there is never any emotional connection.  These doctors further posit that the latter should never be allowed to have sex changes, because they really are men through and through.

Recognizing myself as being firmly in the latter camp, I began to doubt my fetishes for stockings and panties and corsets and swimsuits and fellatio.  But I couldn't prevent them.  I envied those who were allowed to become girls.

Unable to resist, I finally sucked my first cock at my favourite bar.  It was a terrible fiasco, as these first attempts always were.  After almost vomiting at the end of it, semen all over my face and skirt, I vowed never to do it again, and stayed away for weeks.  But in retrospect, I became aroused at the thought that I had sucked dick, like a girl.  I had gained another piece of forbidden knowledge.  It comforted me to think that this practically made me a girl now.

They say that practice makes perfect, and I began to meet with a certain man to improve my technique.  I think I became quite skilled.  It was almost too easy to have him teach me how to take a cock in the ass.  By now I wanted to be as gay as possible, because it made me feel so feminine.  When he pounded my ass and came inside it, I could only think of how feminine I was.

Now I became serious.  I had sexy piercings on my belly button, my nipple, and my tongue.  I was ready to learn the final forbidden lesson: what it feels like to have a penis in my own vagina.  The thought excited me to no end.  I was nervous when I made the first appointment.  Lucky for me, the doctor didn't believe in this hogwash about autogynophiles.  I would begin to live as a girl full-time, without exceptions, and take hormones after a year.  A year after that, I would have the surgery and have a small piece of my small intestine cut out and my sensitive parts attached to it, to make it look and feel like a pussy.

It was hard to come out to my family, but eventually, they accepted it.  Work was sensitive, but at least they were prepared for it.  It felt good to be dressed like a girl all the time.  I had a few sexual adventures, too.  I was overjoyed to start taking the hormones, until taking so many pills became a drag.  I had waited so long to fill in my brassieres, and finally, it was happening.

My mind began to change.  I was much more emotional.  I thought about stopping, but I persevered.  After all these years of gaining feminine knowledge forbidden to men, I was finally really beginning to feel like a girl.

I still knew, though, that I was an autogynophile.  Deep down I knew that I am fundamentally attracted to women, not men.  Yet the thought of my own vagina was far too tempting.  I needed this last bit of forbidden knowledge.

At last, the surgery was done, and I became a woman.  It was months of visits and bandages and stitches and ointments before I could use my new body.  In spite of decades of preparation and longing, nothing could adequately prepare me for the reality of it.  I was aroused by the knowledge that I now had a pussy, but at first I couldn't even touch it.  My arousal felt so strangely displaced.  It hurt at first, terribly, because of the surgery around such sensitive parts.  But eventually, it healed, and I learned to find my clitoris.  It felt like somone had exposed the head of my penis to a nuclear blast.  Later, I discovered that deep inside my new vagina are the nerves that were once on the shaft of my penis.  It took days of desperate experimentation, but I eventually discovered a truly feminine orgasm.

This drastic reconfiguration of my cock, which had foolishly led itself to its own demise, was incredibly disturbing.  I cursed myself for mutilating my most precious body part.  I wanted to fuck girls with my dick again.  I realized that I could never do it again.  I cried a lot those days.

Armed with my new girlhood, and desperate to truly experience it, I trolled my old haunts for some action.  But none of my old boyfriends were interested anymore.  They were gay men, and fucking girls -- even formerly male ones -- did not at all appeal to them.  It took many depressing months of trying before I finally got one.  He was ugly and disgusting, but I needed to feel a penis inside me.  I hardly even took notice of him as he fucked me.  All I could think of was how incredibly sexy and feminine I felt and looked.  Now it was simply a matter of trying different positions.  Somehow, it was still never enough.  It dawned on me that I must be a lesbian.

At last I knew the price of my forbidden knowledge.  In the end, I am a man, no matter what my crotch looks like.  I am insatiably attracted to women.  I betrayed my gender, my identity, for a sympathetic fantasy about the object of my desire.  I was punished the moment I learned my first lesson when I was a young boy.  I was cursed with an insatiable desire to know everything that was forbidden to me from the beginning.  I should have been humiliated enough to stop long ago, at many different stages.  But instead I took it to this irreversible end.

And just the very thought of it makes me unfathomably horny.

Fantasy: My First Fantasy

This is what I used to fantasize about when I was a boy:

Women are determined to catch men, and turn them into girls for their amusement.  Men catch on and learn to resist.  They catch me, and start turning me.  They start me off with pantyhose.  I know that my only hope is to have some layer to protect me, so I put the pantyhose on over my own underwear.  But the girliness seeps through somehow anyway, and I'm tainted.  The women catch on, and force me to do it without protection.  I try to cling to something masculine: first, a t-shirt, then maybe a watch or a ring -- anything at all.  But at last, I am left completely without protection.

(In reality, that's exactly how I progressed.  I didn't dare wear anything else, because it was too feminine; even this was dangerously girlie, and I risked becoming feminized each time I wore it.)

The problem is temptation: a small, weak part of me wants to give in to the girls, because it feels so good.  But I must continue to resist.  Without the protection, I feel utterly helpless, and I fear the next stage: leotards!

(once again, I had to move forward slowly.  I couldn't just wear a swimsuit without protection, because it's far more feminine.  At first, I tried it on with my underwear on, but I wanted more.  I couldn't dare, so I dreamed up this fantasy of leotards, which were in fashion at the time.  I did this by wearing a swimsuit over pantyhose.  Eventually, I found a real leotard, but only after it was much too late.)

The women force me to wear pantyhose ten times before I get leotards.  Halfway through it my fear turns to curiosity.  By the end, it's fantasy.  When at last the first ultra-feminine shock of leotards hits me, my fear returns.  It's too much!  What have I done!  I must resist!  I can't give in to this girliness, or else all is lost!  But they will force me to wear leotards 100 times before I am worthy of wearing a one-piece swimsuit.  The thought horrifies and excites me at the same time.

I ease into the transition, because the leotard tights are similar to pantyhose, but with the added terror of the bodysuit, with its high leg cuts.  Bathing suits, of course, look just like the leotard without the tights.

(I probably gave in almost immediately to the swimsuit.  I was still very apprehensive about it for a long time, and only wore it when I was desperately overcome.)

Sooner than I realize, I finish my 100-leotard initiation.  I am given a fairly modest one-piece swimsuit.  I must wear 1000 of these before I can touch a bikini.  I nervously put it on, wishing I had some protection again.  The sensation is so intensely feminine that I come almost immediately.  I am blown away.  I know now that I am utterly feminized in my heart, and only my body remains.  I love the idea of wearing 1000 one-piece swimsuits, but I can't wait to put on a bikini.

(I now have discovered a less modest swimsuit, and after a few lame attempts in my own underwear, furtively, nervously, afraid of being caught, I dare to do it completely unprotected.  The sensation utterly destroys my inhibitions.  I am overwhelmed by its femininity, and I know now that there's no point in pretending to protect myself.  I am beyond protection now.)

The 1000 swimsuit trial drives me insane with desire for a bikini.  I desperately want a bikini!  But the women won't let me have one.  At some point, I manage to sneak into their storeroom, and secretly put one on outside of their schedule.  I know that they schedule it this way to properly prepare us for womanhood, and that breaking with the schedule puts me at risk of becoming too feminine, but I don't care!

(I don't have access to any bikinis.  I must rationalize my lack of one by pretending that I have to go through an ordeal before I am worthy.  But my fantasies won't be restrained.  I fantasize about lingerie, too, even though it's practically inconceivable to me to ever get any.)

I make a habit of sneaking to the store after wearing a one-piece all day.  I am now trying on bikinis, teddies, garter belts, stockings, and everything I can get my hands on.  Nobody needs to know!  By the time I get to bikinis legitimately, the women are surprised at how easily I handle it, and how easily I put it on.  They suspect, but I don't care!  I'm supposed to wear 10,000 bikinis before I can wear any kind of panties, but I've already done that, so what do they know?

(I stole bikini bottoms from someone's dresser.  I couldn't dare with the bra, because I was both afraid of getting caught, and convinced myself that the bra wouldn't do anything for me.  It's not like I really wanted to be that girlish, after all, I told myself.  It was just another defense mechanism, even this late in the game.  Eventually, I stole another bikini, but with the bra this time.  I could hardly just go with the panties anymore, because now I craved the fully feminine outfit.)

The women, it turns out, have known all along about my secret escapades.  In fact, they secretly encouraged it.  The schedule is fake, and is made to test my desire, and push it over the edge.  We laugh about it as I put on an bustier, panties, stockings, and shoes, and go merrily along being girlie.

(At this point in the fantasy, I come all over myself, and suffer terrible guilt and shame.)

Diary: Stages

The stages:

1. awareness: subject becomes aware that some men wear women's clothing for a sexual kick
   
   • - understands that it's not just for fags
2. awakening: subject understands the erotic appeal
   
   • understands the inherent femininity of women's underwear, skirts, bathing suits, etc.
   • feels a slight flush of curiosity about bondage scenarios with forced feminization, and what it would do to a man
3. experimentation: subject is curious enough to try for himself
   
   • tries on some fetish (stockings, underwear, bathing suit, whatever) either by "force" (visit to a dominatrix) or out of boredom, and fulfills himself sexually with it
     
4. humiliation: subject begins to worry that his experiments are destroying his manhood
   
   • as experimentation repeats, and becomes a habit, our subject denies himself as much as possible
   • rationalizes by saying he likes the feel of tight silk against his crotch, that it has nothing to do with panties being feminine
5. escalation: subject tries on skankier and skankier clothes, as his humiliation drives his desire (this may require more explanation)
   
   • prolonged privation leads to exponentially increased desire: the longer he goes without wearing panties (or whatever), the more extreme his fantasies become.
     This is absolutely key: his fantasies from the beginning are about becoming feminine, but he's hardly even aware of it.  It drives his first fantasies, but doesn't fully enter his consciousness, because he's rationalizing it.  As he denies himself, the fantasies, unfulfilled, have more time to develop, and creep more into his conscious mind.  When he eventually gives in to his irrational desires, mere panties aren't good enough: in his fantasies, he's becoming completely female, and so he wants his reality to come closer to his overwhelming fantasy.  He gets himself a bra, and is shocked at how it magnifies his climax.  It also magnifies his shame, and leads him to deny himself again.  This in turn leads to even more outrageous fantasies, which he eventually fulfills by wearing something even more feminine.  Before he knows it, he's wearing lingerie, stockings, heels, makeup, etc. and hating himself more and more for it.
   • "I'm not gay"
   • subject is in denial about his secret cocksucking fantasies
   • subject invariably feels deep shame when he comes, and when not under the grip of his fantasies, wants to abandon them (which makes them so much more potent)
     
6. capitulation: subject accepts and understands that he now wants to be a girl (still privately)
   
   • accepts that he dresses up because he wants to be feminine
   • unabashedly fantasizes about sucking cock
7. exhibition: subject comes out of closet
   
   • everything was hidden up to now.
   • wears at least something feminine at all times
   • strives to go out in drag, hoping to pass
   • parties at gay bars, trolling for cock
   • gets fucked by men
8. transformation: subject strives to physically become a woman through surgery, hormones, etc.
   
• ultimate fulfillment: growing boobs, having vaginoplasty, feeling a cock pump giz into neovagina

Fantasy: Litérature Vérité

The fantasy had taken hold, and wouldn't let go.  It was the usual scenarios, all mixed together.  I was refining the back story over and over again, getting more and more excited as I circled around the denouement, coming closer and closer each time, from different angles. 

I was captured by a bunch of evil girls who were forcing me to wear a bikini... or a one-piece swimsuit... or they had captured me long ago, and forced me to wear all kinds of other things, trying to feminize me, but I was resisting... Yes... but by now, I knew that I was close to my breaking point... No, I was well past my breaking point, and they had me right where they wanted: begging them to wear a one-piece bathing suit... Yes, I beg them, but they refuse... I've worn so much other stuff by now, over the course of my captivity, that I've even begun to turn girlish, but they never let me wear a bathing suit... Yes, and I absolutely must wear it, I'm obsessed with it... They know that I'm not ready for it, that it will utterly destroy what's left of my manhood, and they want to drag this on forever... Or maybe they know that it will set back my feminization, while I want desperately, but secretly, to accelerate it... yes, it's a trick: they want me to prove just how badly I want to be a girl, so they contrive to have me steal it...

My fantasy settles on the one-piece swimsuit.  I shake loose of my reverie just enough to consciously reach my secret spot, between my bed and the wall, for my stash of girlie things.  I rummage around, and pause after touching each item, trying to guess in the dark what I'm fondling, each time considering for a moment whether or not I'd rather wear that instead, and alter my fantasy accordingly.

Hmmm, my black bustier... lingerie is always fun, but I really can't get that image of Heidi Klum in her swimsuit out of my mind.  I want to feel like that... How about my pink string bikini?  That's pretty fun.  But not as fun, oddly enough, as my silver bikini... oh, how I love the bra on that one... but no, the fantasy is about a one-piece.  Yeah, that's right... I don't like these little cotton panties... ah, here it is!

I pull it out as quietly as possible, and put it down under the sheets beside me.  I strip out of my shorts, thinking for a moment of keeping my shirt on.  There's always something sexy about having girlie stuff on under my boy clothes, like it's an admission that I might look like a man on the outside, but on the inside, I'm utterly feminine.  But even stronger is the idea of abandoning all connection to male attire, and succumbing completely to women's.  I pull off my shirt, and remain naked for no longer than it takes to figure out where the front of my bathing suit is.  I'm such a sissy that I can expertly get dressed in women's underthings in the dark.  The suit slides into place, and I slip my arms into the straps.  I adjust the suit so that it sits right on my body.  I tweak my nipple briefly, fantasizing about the cups of my swimsuit being properly filled.  I let the mist of my imagination thicken back around me, and delve headlong back into my fantasy.

I'm still reworking the back story, although now I'm at the climax.  I'm wearing a one-piece suit, and it's outrageously feminine, and I'm resisting letting it overtake me too fast.  I'm on my stomach now, gently humping my balled-up shorts, savouring every long stroke.  As I fondle my hips and my waist, I imagine myself standing up, in my fantasy scenario, wearing a swimsuit, looking every bit as feminine as Heidi Klum, fondling myself exactly as I am in my bed.  The soft, tight, feminine fabric rubs and stretches on my enormous cock.  In my mind, my cock shrinks away to nothingness, as I fully and wilfully succumb to irresistible womanhood.  My captors catch me red-handed, and I show them how proud I am of defying them.  No, wait... the fantasy shifts again... I am not caught, but I am secretly far more effeminated than they know.  I am in a store full of women's swimwear and lingerie, and I strut around in my new body, scouting out what I'm going to wear next.  What could I possibly wear that could top this in feminine sexiness?  My mind drifts to lingerie, and I imagine myself selecting a nice pair of lacy bikini panties and a matching bra, trying them on...

My cock rubs vigorously against my balled-up shorts.  It's ecstasy.  I'm wearing a women's one-piece swimsuit, very high-cut and tight, and I become conscious that I'm already looking forward to wearing something even sexier.  I'm such a fucking sissy!  I love it!  This realization amplifies my pleasure tenfold.  I'm longing for sexy lingerie that I don't even possess!  My massive erect penis, awash in extraordinary pleasure, is somehow blotted out in my mind, replaced by a soft, fleshy cunt.  Flashes of fucking cross my mind, and I am the girl!  I rub harder and harder, treading dangerously close to the point of no return.  I don't want to come!  I want this to go on forever!  I imagine myself a slutty little bitch, fucking and sucking cock, and loving every second of it!  Every time I come close to coming, I slow down, break the rhythm just enough, and continue.

At last, I can no longer resist the lure of such massive pleasure, and I pass the point of no return.  I do this consciously, and my fantasy dissolves a bit as I prepare for the imminent mess.  The pleasure is phenomenal.  It takes my breath away.  My hand darts into the suit through one of the leg holes, and I cup it next to my dick's head, and pump a huge quantity of semen into it, to the point of overflowing.  My legs shake with the intensity of it.  The remaining mist of fantasy quickly disperses, and I find myself short of breath on my stomach, wearing a smelly blue girlie swimsuit, with a huge mess of giz in my hand, afraid to move for fear of spilling it all over my bedsheets.  I have to be careful as I roll onto my back, and keep the swimsuit from touching the goo on my belly.

I reach for the nearby box of kleenex with my left hand.  This is very tricky.  Over time, it's inevitable: a growing yellowish stain grows on the belly of my swimsuit.  I used to come right into it, heedless of the mess I made.  But now I realize that I need to be more discreet, and more respectful of these wonderful items of clothing.  They are like magical relics, which I must be careful to avoid defiling with my disgusting manhood.  They are pristine vessels of femininity.  Meanwhile, I carefully slide out of my swimsuit, after wiping as much away as I could from my right hand and belly.  At some point I have no choice but to allow the swimsuit to touch a bit of semen.  I clean the rest of the mess, put my shorts back on, and tuck the object of my sin back into its hiding place, a little bit ashamed and disgusted with myself, yet luxuriating in afterglow, the fantasy fulfilled as best as I can.

If I really spent some time developing my fantasy, I sometimes find myself fantasizing about how girlish and sissy I've been, and find myself doing it all over again, usually with some other article of clothing, only with not nearly as much pleasure.  Then I fall asleep exhausted.

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.

Pessimistic

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.

Optimistic

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.

Realistic

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.

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.