Lovely, Vivid Dream

I dreamed last night that I was whisked away to a place where it would be OK for me to be feminine, where there would be no adverse consequences at all. I was wearing a bikini under my clothes at the time, secretly, and I felt such relief at this new freedom. I specifically remember the bra being a sort of triangle top, but with wide straps. It was blue and green.

The first thing I did was shave. I distinctly remember spending a lot of time shaving my face and my legs, and thinking I'd have to go over my hairy chest, too. I was worried about irritating my skin. Then I put on makeup, and noticed in the mirror that my eyebrows needed plucking. Finally, I put on a leopard print dress and went to play bass in a Metallica cover band, and feeling absolutely marvelous. I saw myself from the crowd, and saw a flash of my panties as I bounced around in my short dress.

The dress had long sleeves, was short to about mid-thigh, and flared out at the hips, like this:

My hair was long and curly.

This was one of the most pleasant dreams I've ever had. Total wish fulfillment.

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!

A Bizarre Dream

T__ embodies the spirit of my Muse. She's got confident and sexual. I see tattoos on her forearms, little symbols. She makes no effort to conceal them. She's even proud of them. They represent her conquests, she tells me, of the men she's dominated and fucked. She relishes that this is upsetting to me. She shows me that she has more on her inner thighs. These symbols are inspired by Julia's in The Magicians.

As she shows me this, I see that she has two sets of penis and balls, on each side of her pussy. They're a bit small, and flaccid. She laughs when she sees my shocked expression. She explains that some men she has dominated so much that she kept their penises. I'm facing by the one on the left side of her pelvis, and she has me suck it. I don't resist at all. I have wanted to suck cock, and I welcome the opportunity to experiment with it. However, I'm disappointed that is so small in my mouth, like a child's. I don't tell her this.

This erotic dream has haunted me all day. I have some improvements and embellishments that heighten the effect tremendously.

First, the dicks are not small. They're grafted into her, and fully potent. The one I'm interested in is actually mine. She humiliates me by having me suck my own dick, which belongs entirely to her now. I'm wearing a maid outfit, and I realize that she really does own it: it's no longer on my body, and I no longer feel any of its sensation. She also fucks me with it.

After humiliating me like this a few times she makes me suck and fuck her other dicks too. Think of the possibilities: sucking one cock and jerking off another, both attached to her otherwise ultra feminine body. She can absorb these penises back into her body at will, and make them appear whenever she likes, too. It's my job now to serve her, and watch her enslave other men, and steal their dicks. I am doomed to never feel what it's like to own one ever again. And she never gives me the satisfaction of touching her female parts anymore, either.

Various Girlie Dreams, and Consequences in Real Life

I've been going crazy with deprivation lately. It's going to blow up soon, and it'll be incredibly fun, but I have to wait for now.

Because of my runaway fantasies, I dreamed last night that I was walking around something like a Las Vegas casino resort, with lots of people around and long distances between places. I was wearing knee-high black boots with pointy toes and high heels, and maybe some sort of lingerie or little black dress. I was light on my feet, and proud of my outfit. I didn't at all care what anybody thought about it.

Some time later, I was playing with eye makeup in my hotel room, when I heard my wife arriving. I had thick black mascara and eye shadow on my right eye, and I was desperate to remove it before she could see me. I managed to rinse it off in the sink just as she arrived, and I had to hide the mascara from her, in my hand, desperate to hide it somewhere. Then the whole dream just devolved into some other events that I only vaguely remember, but all while trying to hide from my wife the fact that I'm wearing something feminine.

As a tribute to my dreams, I'm wearing my black lace-up panties all day, and damn the consequences.

Lingerie Dream

I've been obsessing over trans fiction lately, as I revisit my old diary. I loaded all of the stories from the long-defunct Michelle's Mid-Day Break onto my e-reader. I read a few last night before going to sleep. My wife has terrible eyesight, so she can't see what I'm reading.

I had a hard time falling asleep, excited as I was about stories of feminization. The one I read just happened to involve wearing a bikini. I tossed and turned fantasizing about how life would be if I hadn't met my wife, and I could wear girls' stuff all the time.

In my dream, T__ was having me try on lingerie outfits, mainly consisting of bustiers and panties. I remember being surprised that she would want me to wear girl clothes. I wasn't at all hiding the fact that I wanted to, but she was choosing what I would try on. In particular, I remember wearing a satiny off-white bustier with black panties and stockings, and then trying on a black bustier with the same panties and stockings. I had a flowing white satin robe on as well. I think I wore makeup, too.

How I wish it were true! But sadly, it's just a dream. She told me once about a disturbing dream she had in which she found me "hideous." I asked her to elaborate, expecting that she'd say I looked deformed like Quasimodo or something, but instead, she complained that I looked feminine, which she found repulsive.

Therefore, I continue to prance behind her back.

A Dream: Caught by Mom

I just woke up from a vivid dream in which I was caught wearing a woman's swimsuit.

I was living in my parents' old house, in my old bedroom. It was night.  I had a shopping bag full of women's clothes, fresh from the store. I was putting on a one-piece swimsuit, which was completely unlike any I have ever seen: it was a sort of monokini, where the sides of the bottom had to be attached with hooks, like the back of a bra. Putting it on was quite erotic, as I had to delicately attach each side on my hips. The top part had wide shoulder straps. It was brownish, with a sort of wavy pattern. The material was thick, and it was delightfully tight.

No sooner had I strapped myself in, my mother barged into the room -- which she never did in real life -- and started talking as she dropped off some laundry or something. She walked right past me, and I covered myself with dirty clothes that had been piled on the floor, so she wouldn't see what I was wearing.

Somehow, she managed to talk for some time without taking note of me obviously hiding something. I couldn't completely cover myself, so when she turned around, she could clearly see what I was wearing, in spite of my pathetic attempts to hide it. She was obviously annoyed that I was wearing women's clothes "again" and wondered aloud if I was ever going to move on from this phase.

She then proceeded to pick through my shopping bag, and making fun of the slutty tops I had bought myself. For some reason, they were all tops. She was telling me that I had atrocious taste in women's clothes, and asking just why I wanted to wear such things. I sat cowering in the corner, humiliated.

As she got up to leave, I also got up, and came out from under my covers. She had caught me, so there was little point in hiding anymore. I told her firmly that I wear it because I like it. She didn't understand what I said, so I repeated it, heatedly, and felt a swell of pride as I asserted myself.

Then a bunch of other things happened, which I don't clearly remember. It had something to do with my brother passed out in the bathtub of the bathroom adjacent to my bedroom, and my mother being more concerned with him and his obviously more serious problems than me and my relatively harmless ones. After she'd taken care of him, she fell asleep on my bed, exhausted (because this all happened in the middle of the night). I was still wearing my swimsuit and walking around the house now, and I was annoyed that she would sleep on my bed. There was nothing even remotely sexual about her being there, in case you're jumping to some Freudian conclusions. I went back to sleep beside her, in my swimsuit.

I woke up disoriented, in a different room, in a different bed, with a different woman sleeping beside me. The dream was so vivid, it took several seconds to adjust back to reality.

Almost Busted

Last night I dreamed that I was wearing bikini-cut panties under a tight mini skirt, with garters and stockings. I was intensely aroused, and I woke up near the point of climax. When I got up in the morning, I was still starved for some sort of feminine action.

I've been taking chances lately by carefully putting on one of my new swimsuits in another part of the house while my wife sleeps in. I jumped at the chance this morning, and no sooner had I put on my old favorite and gotten into a nice rhythm than I heard her emerge from the bedroom.

In a panic, I jumped back into my shorts over top of my bikini panties, and whipped off the bra. I wasn't thinking straight, so I partly shut the door -- which I rarely do -- when I heard her, looking to cover myself in case she came by. I had no idea what to do with the bra, so I opened a closet door, thinking I'd toss it in there quickly. I thought better of it, and instead tossed it under a bookcase in a corner where I have a bunch of other junk lying around, hoping she wouldn't see it. I then nonchalantly stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind me, heart pounding, wondering what I could possibly do with my panties. I gently placed them in the hamper, and covered them with some other stuff which was already there, got my composure back, and came out of the bathroom as if everything were perfectly normal.

She didn't say a thing about any of this. She's struggling with morning sickness, so she was in a daze staring unenthusiastically at a bowl of half-eaten cereal. I was safe!

Ever since then, I've been cranky for losing my chance to cavort in a bikini. Oh, how much easier this could be if she only knew about it and was OK with it! But even then, I'm sure she wouldn't be happy about me jerking off to porn when I think she's not around, like a normal man.

Coming Out and Acceptance Dream

I was in a hotel room with T__, and we were getting ready to go to the swimming pool.  I wore a brown tankini of some sort -- it doesn't really make sense, but it was more like a babydoll in that it flowed from the bra cups, even though it was definitely swimwear.  T__ was not at all shocked or disturbed or even annoyed: if anything, she was indifferent.

I was excited and anxious, because I'd never come out like this before.  It sure was bold of me to come out at a hotel swimming pool!  As we went, I was confused by some spaghetti-strap strings hanging from my bathing suit.  I didn't know what they were for, or where they went, so I asked T__, who dutifully explained that they tie around my legs, and as she proceeded to tie them for me, I noticed that my legs were totally hairless.  It felt erotic to me, but I got the sense that T__ was quite indifferent about it.  Yes, this doesn't correspond at all to any type of clothing I've ever seen or heard of, but it's a dream, what do you expect?  It may have been some type of flimsy and feminine cover-up.

We got to the pool and settled down.  I wasn't shy at all.  I just acted like this was perfectly normal.  People would come by and congratulate me. "Way to go, good for you!" they said.  "Who cares that you like to dress like a girl?  It's great that you can feel comfortable enough about yourself that you can come out in public like this."  I felt silly for having been so secretive about my fetish for so long, and relieved that I could finally be freely feminine in public.

After that, somehow T__ disappeared to meet her friends, and I was to meet them all later at a restaurant.  I went to find her, still wearing my swimsuit, and empowered by the earlier words of encouragement.  I was now at peace with the world as a transvestite, and the world was at peace with me.  I found T__ and her friends, and they behaved as if it were the most normal thing in the world that I'd be wearing feminine beach wear.

Hanky Panky Dream

I have a vague recollection of having a dream recently about frolicking in girl wear with someone else!


I think I was wearing something feminine -- possibly white short-shorts -- and feeling sexy.  At some point someone else appeared, a playmate, and I was happy but apprehensive about meeting them.  I wasn't at all ashamed or embarrassed about what I was wearing, if indeed I was en femme.  Certainly, the person I met was wearing white short-shorts or boyshorts, and not shy about it either.

What little I remember is that this other person had a penis, and I wanted to touch it, to experience cock for the first time.  I was excited, but apprehensive.  I wanted to feel it in my hand, but worried that I wouldn't enjoy it.  Then this person humped my hip.

His penis was small and wimpy, and I was disappointed -- not in the penis, not in my partner, but in myself -- for not being as aroused by it as I had hoped. Instead I was thinking about girls, and pussy, and that this proves what my true preference is.  I was at peace with my realization, as I let the gurl hump me.

That's all I remember.  The thought of it now is massively arousing.

Go figure.

Swim Shorts Dream

I was with T___ in a hotel room (IRL, we've got a tropical vacation planned), but we're more like friends than a couple.  I think there's somebody else there, maybe my brother (IRL, we never hang out together), in a totally platonic way.  We're getting ready to go to the beach.  I had to borrow swim trunks, since I had none of my own.  Somehow I ended up wearing canary yellow shorts, with white polka dots, which I thought were suspiciously feminine.  I mentioned it to T___, and she said they were girls' swimshorts, but that it wouldn't be a big deal, and besides I should start wearing women's clothes in public anyway to get used to it, since I'm now determined to become a woman.  That's when I noticed that my body hair was gone, and I was quite happy to venture out to the beach like this.

The Notebook Dream

I had one of those Composition notebooks, and I wrote the name Angélique on it, in fancy script, musing about how I'd love that to be my name.  Then my mother arrived with a bunch of people, and she collected notebooks, and laughed jovially when she took mine and saw the clever name I had put on it, like it was a joke on my part.  I laughed along with her, nervously, feeling like I came close to having my secret discovered.

Silver Sequined Dress

I dreamed that I put on a very tight silver sequined dress.  It was particularly tight on the shoulders, and difficult to put on, but once I had it on, it was exquisite.

Swim race

I dreamed I was in a swim competition, and started out normal, but then I was in a women's one-piece competition swimsuit.

A Dream

I dreamed last night that my wife and I had a big soiree to attend. So I went to a mall to buy myself something to wear, but I was obsessed with buying girlie stuff. Back at home, getting ready, I put on black panties and black tights. My wife wasn't totally unhappy about it. I was going to wear a short, tight skirt, but she had me put on some pants instead and out we went.

The party is a blur of old high school acquaintances and evening wear. Of course, at some point I think I ended up without my pants, exposing my tights, but it was taken as perfectly normal.

When it was time to go home, we had to return my pants to the store for some reason. The owner was furious about having to deal with a tranny like me, and kicked us out of his store. Then he followed us with a gun, me happily without my pants again. I wasn't afraid of him at all. He kept missing, until finally I fought him, and woke up.

What was interesting about this was that my wife, who in reality has no clue about my secret, knew about and tolerated it, as long as it remained private. How I wish that were true, but I'm far too chicken to ever tell her.

A Strange Dream

The other night I had a strange dream. I entered a bedroom at a house party, and on the bed was what I first thought to be a thin woman with a long manly nose, wearing a black teddy, and barely containing her ample, alabaster breasts. Then somehow, I recognized her to be myself. I asked her if she liked being female, and she answered softly, 'Yes.' I pressed her to confirm, because I knew that she used to be a man. 'I love it!' she answered, purring like a big cat. I then proceeded to make out with her.

I'm not sure that she was really me, but I felt like I was controlling her like a puppet. The words she spoke were mine. The thoughts and ideas behind them were mine. These thoughts were much more complex than the words might imply. They paused on how my Mistress would feel if I said anything but yes, and added that I loved it not only to please her, but because I realized that it was true. That's when I started necking.

Then the dream dissolved, and I don't remember anything else.

I think that while I fucked my fiancee that night, I imagined sucking cock.

Diary: Wherein I Realize That I Wish I Had a Vagina

I dreamed last night that I had a cunt.  My cock got chopped off, and turned into a cunt.  I've never imagined it so vividly before.  It's always been a sort of tangential concept, not fully explored.  Last night I dreamed it, felt it as if it were real.  I was so pleased that I could wear panties now and they'd fit around my new equipment just the way they're supposed to.  I began to masturbate, and swore that I would suck as much cock as I possibly could, now that I was a girl.  It was so intense that I have been thinking about it all day long.  I think the point is that I never really understood that that is what I really am always fantasizing about.  I have said over and over again that I want to be a girl, but I never conceived of it in that fundamental way before.  

Anyway, I have lost focus in the story I was writing.  It's becoming painfully slow and repetitive.  It needs a swift kick in the ass to get it going again.  

There are a couple of elements I'd like to mention once again.  First, the desire to transform must be entirely voluntary, yet completely unexpected.  There can be an element of force or coercion to get it started, but there must be a conscious decision on the victim's part.  For example, one of the stories I like has a pair of wives, a psychologist and a plastic surgeon, turn their husbands into transsexuals.  The trouble is that neither man had any interest in becoming a woman before the psychologist hypnotized him.  If not for the hypnosis, neither man would have gone through with it.  There was no shocking discovery, just instant feminization.  Also, humiliation should play a role.  There should be an internal struggle between humiliation and bliss, such that bliss must eventually prevail.  

Diary: Bad Things

A__ has referred to having sex, or for that matter, doing anything sexual, as "doing bad things."  Bad, in the sense that she feels like she isn't allowed to do them, that they feel great, but that good girls don't do them.  

I, on the other hand, don't consider these things "bad" in any way, except maybe in that I may be corrupting her by fucking her.  But that's no big deal, really.  It gives me a little bit of a rush, especially when I'm fucking her from behind.  She's so innocent and virginal, except for those times when she's got my dick in her. 
I, on the other hand, have a totally different definition of "doing bad things."  

The similarities, now that I think of it, are remarkable: in a sense, we're both afraid of being feminine.  A__ doesn't wear sexy clothes, because she's afraid of looking slutty, or of attracting too much masculine attention.  When I do bad things, I feel defensive about my femininity, too.  I think we both feel like we're losing virginal innocence when we wear sexy lingerie and miniskirts.  Femininity is somehow dangerous for us.  Understandably more for me.

There is a lot more to it than that.  There's something about femininity that is unquestionably bad for men.  I'm being bad right now.  I'm a very bad boy.  I'm wearing the black satin panties I gave A__ for Christmas.  And one of her white bras (the one that matches these panties isn't here.  Damn!).  My very own garter belt and black stockings.  And a very sexy, short black dress of A__'s.  

It's related somehow to the discovery of sexuality.  I always did hide to masturbate.  Lord knows why.  I suppose it's because every time I masturbated, it was with women's clothes, or at least with women's clothes in mind.  It was a bad thing to do.  Those clothes aren't mine.  I need to fictionalize this.

I'm a young boy.  There's something about girls that's very, very exciting.  They make me feel all funny in my groin.  Even more exciting are their skimpy little outfits.  There's something about the female body that I simply can't understand, something about the shapes and curves that fascinates me, as well as every other heterosexual man.  I often feel an uncontrollable urge to do bad things.  Things that involve girls and my thingie.

I suppose I know, even at this tender age, that I'm a boy, and boys must do boy things, not girl things.  I must assert my identity as a boy at all costs.  Nothing must indicate weakness of any kind.  Girls are icky, and neither I nor my young male friends like them.  They're just so different.

However, there's a little problem.  I can barely even see the contradiction in this most of the time.  My secret urges compel me to wear girls' clothes.  I cannot resist.  At the very least, I imagine it, and yearn for it, while I masturbate.  I know that it's a very bad thing to do.  But I do it all the time anyway.  Because it feels so incredibly good.

It's all so innocent.  Girls are just so pretty.  Something about them.  I can't get them out of my mind.  They're so deliciously delicate, so soft, so curvy.  I start rubbing myself against my besheets, naked, imagining that I'm wearing something outrageously and unequivocally feminine, like a bikini or lingerie.  I feel incredible when I think about wearing women's clothes.  I imagine myself becoming female, or that I will somehow become female if I continue to imagine it, or if I ever actually do wear something feminine.  That only makes me even hotter, and I look forward to becoming a girl, and be pretty and sexy and wear bikinis and silk and lace and dresses and pantyhose. . .

And I get an orgasm.  I'm so young that I don't even necessarily come.  But I realize instantly that I have done something very bad.  I am supposed to establish my masculinity, even at this young age.  But here I am, fantasizing about being a girl, to the point where I want to go beyond just dresses and tresses, and actually wear women's underwear.  I deeply regret my secret crime, and vow to never let such thoughts take hold of me again.  Next time I masturbate, I cannot allow myself to think about becoming a woman.

Of course, it's no use.  There's no way to censor my own thoughts.  I get horny, and I try to think of other things, but I can't help but go back to my bad thoughts of wearing girlish underthings, of becoming a girl.  And always, I finish with shame.  I have been bad.  Again.

Rather than getting better, it gets worse.  I start rolling up my own underwear to make it more effeminate, to try to shape it more like a bikini bottom.  I tie the bottom of an extra-large shirt into a crotch, and pretend that it's a bathing suit.  I'm always so ashamed.  But fantasies and make-believe are one thing.

What once passed off as mere fantasies suddenly becomes much more real.  Once, I only thought of putting on women's clothes, only imagined becoming a girl.  But now, my bad thoughts take me the next logical step further.  I sneak into the laundry basket to borrow my mother's pantyhose.  I curse myself for allowing myself that dangerous escapade, because now I do it more and more often.  

I was so curious.  After so many years of just imagining wearing something girlish, I finally dare to actually try on pantyhose.  I slip it on, over my own underwear, careful not to let that effeminate material actually touch my crotch, at the risk of instantly losing all control, all manhood.  I just want to feel it against my legs.  There is nothing that men wear that can compare to pantyhose.  It's so tight on the leg, so sheer, so soft.  They remind me of women's thighs.  I want to have thighs like that, too.  And I know the risk I'm taking.  I know that if I go ahead with this, I am taking a frightening step closer to becoming a girl.  I do it, because I want to feel like a girl at that point.

Needless to say, I go on to wear pantyhose all the time.  It's incredibly bad.  But what can I do?  I'm powerless.  I think of all the dainty little straps coiling around girlish bodies, and having silky little straps coiling around my body effeminately and turning me into a girl.  I yearn for a bathing suit, for a garter belt, for a bra.  But I don't dare.  Yet.

I'm so very bad.  I start stealing things from a friend's sister.  I finally wear a bikini.  It's fantastic: that tiny stretchy soft tight skimpy little bikini bottom makes me feel more like a girl than I've ever felt before.  I know that it's bad.  But I revel in it.  I crave it.  I want it to last forever.  I want to be a girl so desperately.  I want to experience all female clothing.  I'm completely corrupted, and I know it.  Worse, I love being corrupted.  I know how bad I am, and I want to be the worst I can be.  I am not just curious about wearing lingerie.  I have a pretty good idea of what it will feel like.  I know how wonderful it will feel.  But I can still only dream of it.  I manage a modest collection of female clothing, which I hide under my bed.  I'm ashamed of my bad thoughts, but I cannot help but indulge in them whenever possible.

Last night I dreamed that I was walking around in public when I realized that I was wearing a black mini-dress and blue stockings or pantyhose.  I was totally masculine underneath, and I was quite pleased to be wearing a dress, but I was embarrassed because I was in public, and people could see me.  I passed by my college, afraid that some friends might notice me.  I wanted to hide from them, I wanted to go home and hide.  But I was out in public, for all the world to see, wearing women's clothes.  My legs weren't even shaved, and I could see the hair under the pantihose.  I realized that people were laughing at me, and I was ashamed, but I was also proud and quite pragmatic about the whole thing.  There was no point in my trying to hide, or taking off the clothes I was wearing.  So I might as well try to ignore everybody, and just enjoy my little adventure.  I even remember rubbing my stocking-clad legs together, and reveling in the sensation.  I was sitting down inside a bus on the way home.  

So here I am wearing some of mom's clothes again, because I feel so horny from that dream.  I gotta go now.  And do bad things. . .

Diary: Psychologist's Personality Test (Bonus: Capitulation Scenario)

After a somewhat extended absence, I return to this pointless journal of my perversion.

What draws me back?  Sheer boredom.  I have nothing better to do to pass the time than to masturbate.  Isn't that disgusting?  I need to give myself a sexual thrill, so I come to the computer to remind me of my taste for lingerie, and to fuel my libido, and get me going.

I lack ideas.  Or I've become too self-conscious of wearing women's clothing.  It's a very strange thing to do, and I can't make it any more logical.  In a way, it doesn't even matter when I think about it: I'm just putting on clothes, like I would anyway.  It's just that the clothes I want to wear are designed for members of the opposite sex, designed to accentuate their sexiest features.  Why do I want to wear them?  Quite simply because it feels amazing.  But the thrill sometimes seems a bit less if I'm too indifferent about it.  The thrill comes from the fact that it is taboo, and I do it anyway.  It comes from the fact that I willingly forsake my masculinity for the pleasure that women's underwear gives me.

Here's another scenario, another repetition of the same old story.  I got the idea from a dream:


There's a psychologist (female) who interviews everybody.  She determines the sexual orientation of people by asking them to fill out a survey, or submit to an interview.  A__ [my girlfriend] went in and was confirmed 90% heterosexual, the most you can be.  Other friends and family end up in the ninety percent range.  The shrink's theory is that our identity stems from our sexuality.  Men act like men, and think in ways that women don't, and all because of their gender.  Hard to argue against it.  But she determines a person's sexuality by analyzing his or her personality.  She asks me questions, and I am determined to be brutally honest.  She hums and hahs throughout the questionaire, as if my responses are very interesting or significant.  I score in the 60% range, a borderline faggot.

I'm not shocked, but I find that I disagree with her assessment.  But not totally: I do admit to having homosexual fantasies once in a while.  So I now have this new awareness that I have a slightly feminine personality.

Not much of a scenario.  In fact, as in all dreams, the details are contradictory.  I remember answering proudly and honestly that I wear women's clothing quite often.  That's not a personality question.  But I think that that was the basis of her assessment.  It contributes to my femininity.  The funny thing is that it goes against all my theories about my scenario: it always, I thought, involves a super-masculine man abandoning his gender because of lingerie.  In this case, I was myself, and totally comfortable with the knowledge that I wear women's underwear, and having my femininity confirmed.  I woke up needing to masturbate, and imagining, as usual, wearing feminine panties, and even being female and getting fucked.

It's still the idea of metamorphosis, though.  I always loved that idea.  It turns me on.  Every time I encounter a metamorphosis in some work of art, like a film or a book, I think of how incredibly sexy that is.  I don't know exactly why.  But I imagine that the transformation is complete, and irreversible, and, no matter how hard I resist, welcome.  The trigger could be anything: a man turning into a zombie, or an insect, or a statue, or anything.  He resists the change, but in the end, totally becomes what he has tried to avoid becoming, although he is still recognizable, and becomes totally absorbed in his new identity.  

This is strikingly similar to my femininity scenario.  I stubbornly resist becoming a girl, but gradually, as I am exposed to lingerie, I become one, until I notice that there is no turning back.  No matter how I feel about it, it's done, and it's irreversible.

I suppose I could write a Poe-type horror story, with a first-person narrator who discovers one of his associates who had disappeared some time ago transformed into a demi-woman.  The elements of the story are clear:

1. Man asserts his identity confidently.  He combats the opposite state of his identity somehow.
2. Man, in combating his opposite, loses a bit of ground.
3. Man, in losing ground, slowly begins to abandon his identity, and slips into the thing that he hated.
4. Man discovers with surprise that he has begun to become what he hated, and that the he can still pull back.
5. Man does not pull back.
6. Man discovers, to his horror, that the trend is now irreversible, and that he is halfway to being the thing he hates.

It's like the captivity narratives of the Puritans.  The Puritans battle savages, are captured, and forced to act like them to survive; they at first resist, but vow to keep the fortitude of mind to remain civilized; they forget; they encounter another civilized person, and discover that they have become savage, too.

So here's how it happened:

I had lost contact with R__ several years ago.  I remember that he went to teach English at a Women's college.  He was such an anti-feminist, hating their rhetoric, that he wanted to instill a bit more balance in his female students' minds.

Soon I read some of his articles in the academic journals.  He was still vehemently anti-feminist.  He opposed writing about the feminine touch, rejected the notion that females write differently, and opposing the call for a feminist canon.  

Then I heard that they threatened to turn him away.  His articles softened a bit.  His fellow professors convinced him to reconsider his strong ideas.  They suggested that he try to imagine himself in a woman's shoes for once.

He genuinely tried.  He decided that to really understand women deep down, but at the same time maintain his masculine exterior, he would wear women's underwear.  He would be constantly reminded by the soft silk on his genitals that he should think like a woman; but no one would notice.

It worked quite well.  He maintained his own perspective, but allowed for a more feminine point of view.  His lectures were much more successful when he taught in women's underwear, and he wrote the best papers in secret drag.  But no one had to know what he was doing.

That's what he thought, anyway.

One day, as he was teaching, and thinking about the tight little silk and lace panties he had underneath his pants, he noticed that his manners were almost imperceptibly feminine.  A slight lisp here, a limp wrist there.  He began to worry.  But he could not give up his secret to success: the underwear.

But his papers were losing favour again.  He wore only women's underwear now.  And it worked temporarily.  But he had to do more.  He began wearing brassieres, as well.  He found himself shopping in the women's section of the local department store more than the men's section.  He wore lingerie under his suits.  He slept in sexy nightgowns to infuse his subconscious with femininity.  He kept his hair long, and began taking much better care of it.  But he always threatened to fall another step behind.  He decided to shave his legs.  Then his chest and belly, too.  He became proud of his ability to adapt to feminine thinking.


Still, no one knew about his little secret.  Until he was caught buying lingerie by one of his former collegues--me.  I thought it odd, and he was embarrassed.  He didn't know how to answer my questions.  I knew, as everyone did, that he was a bachelor.  

This is when he realized that he was becoming female, slowly but surely.  How could he explain that he wears lingerie over his shaven body, underneath his clothes, because he wants to gain a feminine perspective?  He couldn't tell anyone the truth.  It was absurd.

I thought nothing more of it, and left him there.  I only found out later, when I visited the college again three years later.

Professor R__ was the delight of his collegues and students.  He commanded much more respect than ever.  Everyone at the college appreciated his efforts at becoming more in tune with feminist thinking.  His attitude was obvious from the fact that he had begun to wear skirts to work.  He wore makeup.  I discovered when I met him again that his bust had expanded somewhat, and his voice had raised an octave.  He was by no means very feminine, but he tried to be.