A__ and I are no more. She never wanted the panties part of the lingerie I gave her, so it's still in my dresser, along with the stockings. I have moved my other stuff into the same drawer now. What the Hell's the difference? It's all my underwear, isn't it? I like the idea of having girls' clothes in my underwear drawer.
I have to fantasize about this again. For weeks, the most intensely gratifyingly sexy deed I could think of involved fucking her, no kinks involved. But I have to forget that if I want to move on. So back to lingerie for me!
I've re-read much of this file. There's a lot in there to turn me on. I want to fantasize about it again, and get totally girlified once more. I want to explore the possibilities of my fantasies again, in a systematic way.
Showing posts with label heartbreak. Show all posts
Showing posts with label heartbreak. Show all posts
Diary: Fantasizing About a Week-Long Retreat
I am dreaming up concrete plans for a week's retreat in seclusion to explore the depths of my affinity for femininity. One day, I suppose, when I have some money saved up, I'll rent a place in the country, isolated, perhaps in the winter, where I can be alone and no one will disturb me. I'll take it for at least a week, and make sure that no one knows where I am, or what it is I am doing.
I will either have accumulated over time a whole assortment of panties and bras and lingerie, or I'll buy it all on the way up, and an assortment of makeup, including lipstick, eyeliner, mascara, eyeshadow, and perhaps even rouge and nail polish. My hair will be long and thick. I'll bring a razor, or bottles of Nair, and remove all of my unsightly man hair, from my arms, my legs, my chest, my face, my back, my ass, my bikini line. I'll be shaven smooth to the skin, like a girl, for a little while at least. Then I'll shower, and abandon my male clothes. I'll slip into the sexy lacy little panties awaiting me outside, and slowly relish getting all dressed up. I'll pull on the silk stockings, hook them up to my garter belt, and parade around for a little while like a girl. I'll spray a bit of perfume on myself, and make up my face. Then I'll put on whatever sexy skirt and blouse or dress or whatever suits me best, and be a girl for the rest of the week. I'll walk, talk, eat like a girl. I'll sit like a girl, pee like a girl, think like a girl. I'll admire myself in the mirror, because I want to see how beautifully feminine I have become. I'll just stick around the place, not to leave, and masturbate about a hundred times, always careful not to soil my clothes. No, better yet, I'll torture myself by waiting until night before I allow myself to do it, and do it until I am totally satisfied. I'll wash up and go to bed in a silky nighty, without panties or anything. I'll wake up in the morning and repeat everything, until I either get sick of it or vow to change my sex for real. And I'll have to model bikinis and swimsuits and lingerie often. If I feel really kinky, I'll shove a dildo up my ass when I masturbate.
If I feel very successful, I'll venture out of my seclusion, at first unseen, but soon in public, as a woman. As I gain confidence, I'll pick up guys and fuck them, or let them fuck me. But I doubt that I'll get that much into it. If I find that I'm feeling that feminine, I'll force myself to prefer male bodies. Most likely, I will simply wear the clothes and feverishly anticipate my eventual release.
The more I think of it, the more I would like to do this soon. I want to discover my long-repressed sexuality. This desire is extraordinarily powerful. But I think that my desire to fuck women is more powerful, only rarer, and simply because it is social. When I see people, I always want to fuck the pretty women. Always. Or rather, I want to worship them by falling in love with them and showering them with gifts and affection. My fantasy, though, is much more personal, more pervading, more commanding. I perpetually think of it when I'm home. When I'm out, and I pass by lingerie stores, I think whimsically about owning certain items. I have lately been accused on e-mail of being a woman. I wasn't thinking about it at the time, but the comment made me want to answer sarcastically -- but honestly -- that I was busy dressing up in girl's underwear to care about what he said, or something like that. I was almost flattered that he would call me a woman. What a compliment, to be associated with perfection!
How perfect the female body is. I recently cut out a Page 3 Girl, the prettiest, sexiest one I've seen in ages. Somehow, she exudes femininity. She wears a blue checkered sort of bra, probably from a bikini, and jean shorts up to her belly button, with the top button subtly, but erotically undone. Underneath the shorts is probably a matching bottom. She is photographed on her left side, and her right arm is raised, her hand pushing through her brown hair. A few strands of hair sensuously rest upon her bare shoulder. She leans on a stone wall, and shows off her hourglass shape by curving with her waist. Her ribs protrude the slightest bit above her firm, curvaceously flat belly. Her pretty face has an air of sensuous indifference, of basking in the glow of her own, self-conscious femininity, as if she is slightly bored of being so perfect, and resents that she is an object of desire for lowly men, despite her obvious, but malicious relish for her own beauty. She knows that she is beautiful, and hates men for finding her so, but uses her natural gift of femininity to lure her lustful but brutishly lowly admirers into her trap, to be taken advantage of.
Notice that I always associate women with manipulation. Genetically, they are. They are made, apparently, to attract our gifts of protection and money and security. When we can't provide it any longer, they dump us. Our sex, which is the most important thing in them to us, is useless to them. Our sex is just a toy, a pastime to them. They only pretend to enjoy it, because it makes us think that we are worth something to them besides our money and power. Oh, well. They simply rule.
I will either have accumulated over time a whole assortment of panties and bras and lingerie, or I'll buy it all on the way up, and an assortment of makeup, including lipstick, eyeliner, mascara, eyeshadow, and perhaps even rouge and nail polish. My hair will be long and thick. I'll bring a razor, or bottles of Nair, and remove all of my unsightly man hair, from my arms, my legs, my chest, my face, my back, my ass, my bikini line. I'll be shaven smooth to the skin, like a girl, for a little while at least. Then I'll shower, and abandon my male clothes. I'll slip into the sexy lacy little panties awaiting me outside, and slowly relish getting all dressed up. I'll pull on the silk stockings, hook them up to my garter belt, and parade around for a little while like a girl. I'll spray a bit of perfume on myself, and make up my face. Then I'll put on whatever sexy skirt and blouse or dress or whatever suits me best, and be a girl for the rest of the week. I'll walk, talk, eat like a girl. I'll sit like a girl, pee like a girl, think like a girl. I'll admire myself in the mirror, because I want to see how beautifully feminine I have become. I'll just stick around the place, not to leave, and masturbate about a hundred times, always careful not to soil my clothes. No, better yet, I'll torture myself by waiting until night before I allow myself to do it, and do it until I am totally satisfied. I'll wash up and go to bed in a silky nighty, without panties or anything. I'll wake up in the morning and repeat everything, until I either get sick of it or vow to change my sex for real. And I'll have to model bikinis and swimsuits and lingerie often. If I feel really kinky, I'll shove a dildo up my ass when I masturbate.
If I feel very successful, I'll venture out of my seclusion, at first unseen, but soon in public, as a woman. As I gain confidence, I'll pick up guys and fuck them, or let them fuck me. But I doubt that I'll get that much into it. If I find that I'm feeling that feminine, I'll force myself to prefer male bodies. Most likely, I will simply wear the clothes and feverishly anticipate my eventual release.
The more I think of it, the more I would like to do this soon. I want to discover my long-repressed sexuality. This desire is extraordinarily powerful. But I think that my desire to fuck women is more powerful, only rarer, and simply because it is social. When I see people, I always want to fuck the pretty women. Always. Or rather, I want to worship them by falling in love with them and showering them with gifts and affection. My fantasy, though, is much more personal, more pervading, more commanding. I perpetually think of it when I'm home. When I'm out, and I pass by lingerie stores, I think whimsically about owning certain items. I have lately been accused on e-mail of being a woman. I wasn't thinking about it at the time, but the comment made me want to answer sarcastically -- but honestly -- that I was busy dressing up in girl's underwear to care about what he said, or something like that. I was almost flattered that he would call me a woman. What a compliment, to be associated with perfection!
How perfect the female body is. I recently cut out a Page 3 Girl, the prettiest, sexiest one I've seen in ages. Somehow, she exudes femininity. She wears a blue checkered sort of bra, probably from a bikini, and jean shorts up to her belly button, with the top button subtly, but erotically undone. Underneath the shorts is probably a matching bottom. She is photographed on her left side, and her right arm is raised, her hand pushing through her brown hair. A few strands of hair sensuously rest upon her bare shoulder. She leans on a stone wall, and shows off her hourglass shape by curving with her waist. Her ribs protrude the slightest bit above her firm, curvaceously flat belly. Her pretty face has an air of sensuous indifference, of basking in the glow of her own, self-conscious femininity, as if she is slightly bored of being so perfect, and resents that she is an object of desire for lowly men, despite her obvious, but malicious relish for her own beauty. She knows that she is beautiful, and hates men for finding her so, but uses her natural gift of femininity to lure her lustful but brutishly lowly admirers into her trap, to be taken advantage of.
Notice that I always associate women with manipulation. Genetically, they are. They are made, apparently, to attract our gifts of protection and money and security. When we can't provide it any longer, they dump us. Our sex, which is the most important thing in them to us, is useless to them. Our sex is just a toy, a pastime to them. They only pretend to enjoy it, because it makes us think that we are worth something to them besides our money and power. Oh, well. They simply rule.
Diary: Bitter Regrets
Rereading all of that is vaguely arousing, but not as much as when I wrote it. I seem to be saturating my need for transvesticism and transsexualism. How unfortunate. Or is it?
As expected, I am a bit shocked about what I wrote. I am not at all turned on by the homoeroticism right now. I can only think of pussy. I want some pussy. I need some pussy. I need to fuck a nice, lovely chick. But can I? I somehow doubt it. What is going on here? Am I wrecking myself, or what? Let me explain.
For a long time, I have found it impossible to get aroused when I'm with a girl. Not that I've had much opportunity. But I am not as turned on by them as perhaps I should be. I danced with CC__, and with B__ and with Br__, my band's groupies, and failed to get a woody. Br__ and C__ aren't exactly my type, but B__ is, despite her age. I can't imagine fucking her, though. I was so damned uncomfortable when Cr__ started making out with me last year. I felt nothing. Nothing at all. S__ scares me. She's cute, but I can't seem to feel horny for her enough to move on her. I don't even think I like her anymore. She hurt me so badly! I can't forgive her for that. I have a problem with women.
Ever since Br__ dumped me so horribly, I can't take sex seriously. It all seems to me to be a big mistake, an illusion that the whole world avidly believes in. It's such a facade. I can no longer think of sex seriously when confronted with the reality of it. It used to be so easy to idealise girls and worship them from afar, romantically, and when I finally got one, I maintained the fantasy. She was such an actress. The whole time, she was playing a role. I recall that time when she freaked out on the phone and ran screaming out of her apartment brandishing a knife. I raced up there, worried at first, but somehow, at the back of my mind, I knew that I had nothing to fear; that she was totally safe, not at all serious. It was the type of thing you see in a play or a movie. Real people don't take things so seriously. Indeed, she didn't. I found her later, and she admitted that she felt foolish, knowing that she wouldn't do anything with that knife. I knew it too, but I was just as bad as her by playing my own role.
Now I notice that people all around me do the same. I get nostalgic at times, watching the game unfold in front of me, and I hope for fortune to throw some sex goddess my way. Then, as I watch more closely, I begin to realize that it's all a fantasy, a way of looking at things. A woman, I once thought, is a totally different species. Socially, we segregate ourselves by sex at youth. Only later do our hormones pull us together. If not for that, perhaps we would stay away completely. As we mature, we keep these strange ideas about the opposite sex, and idealize them. When we fall in love, we feel like they are goddesses. We worship their diferences, because their physicality makes them something else. I spent fifteen months thinking of Br__ that way. She was a woman, an entity on her own only in that she was female. I couldn't care that she was human.
Now when I look at a girl, I see instead the similarities, and lose sexual interest. What's the use if they're essentially the same? A girl farts, shits, pisses, pukes, eats sleeps, etc. just like I do. There's nothing romantic about a couple of mounds of flesh on the chest, a tiny waist, big hips and a fleshy hole in the crotch. It's all human skin and fat and bone, It's all just like me, only built differently. When I think of tits, they seem to me to be nothing more than lumpy globs of fat with nipples on them. They're not so great. But when I see them, I am at first seized with intense desire and curiosity. It slowly fades. A cunt is a smelly bloody thing. It's not sexy in and of itself, either. Women seem top be soft, sort of childlike-featured adults. Big fucking deal. I imagine a girl sucking me off, remember that she must have done it many times before, and the romantic feeling disappears. The same with sex. How can it be special? It's just genital friction, marinated in illusions of romance, steeped in fantasy. It has no meaning.
S__ tells me about the guy she fucked at some trailer park on Victoria day weekend when she and her boyfriend annually break up. What's the attraction? She fucks another guy. She abandons every thought of the guy to whom she has attached herself for five long fucking years just for a meaningless fuck. Why did that bother me so much? Why did it make me so jealous? I used to jerk myself thinking of fucking her, and then, all of a sudden, the idea of her fucking the trailer park guy pops in and I go flaccid. Why does it bother me? I think it's because it so cruelly shatters my illusions of a somewhat permanent relationship. How can she betray her boyfriend like that? I have no problem imagining her fucking her boyfriend. But anyone else? It's painful. Perhaps I feel grossly inadequate at the same time. Why not me? It's both, I guess. Come to think of it, It must be the latter. The former is just a redirection of negative emotion. But it's partially valid, too. I feel so jealous when I think of it that way. Oh well.
The point is that reality has no place in sex. It's a fantasy world. That's why I enjoy dressing up in girl's panties so damned much. It's totally unreal, and there's no way that my fantasies can get shattered, because there's nobody there. It's futile to put girls on such a pedestal. The only charm they have is the hormonal fantasy they come close to. They are only as good as they are similar to the ephemeral dream-girl. That's why I don't even bother. I'm so tragically picky that I can't even imagine dating a girl right now. It's just too god-damned painful. It's so shattering. I don't like having my illusions destroyed. Sure, it enlightens me, but to what price? I'm sure I'll get over it soon. I just have to sort it out some more. This is very helpful, this writing.
Why must I be so hung up on this fantasy of femine perfection? Is everybody simply a slave to an ideal? Do they constantly strive to find that perfect person, and fail miserably every time, only to try again and again? Don't they realize how impossible it is to acheive something like that? Perhaps many do, yet they can continue. I myself have such a clear idea of what I want. That's how I fell in love with S__. One must want to fall in love for it to happen. People like my buddy E__ fall in love constantly. I fall in love once in a blue moon. I don't want to fall in love because I know that it will fail. Why bother? Sure, I can get sex. If I do end up being such a good friend too, I'm fucking a friend. Somehow, I realize now that I am no longer in love with S__, it seems disrespectful to want to fuck a friend. It's sort of insulting. It's a failure to see a person for what she really is. I don't know if I could fuck her if she gave me an opportunity. I could be such a good friend of hers, or I could lose all respect for her now that the veil in front of me has been removed. I think that I have lost a lot of respect for her since she threw herself at J__ right in front of me. Oh, how she wounded me! How could she? She broke my heart without even knowing it. That makes me realize even more that girls are just like us. Unlike my ideal, a real girl can be aroused by a whole multitude of men. That's totally fair, but it seems unfair. Why should reality be so different from fantasy? How can I relate, when these fantasies are innate? What can I do?
It seems that there are two options: live in a fantasy world, or live in reality. Fantasy seems awfully enticing. It's all under my own control. But reality is after all reality. I can count on it not to ever change. It's unpredictable, spontaneous, fulfilling. Fantasy is not. Fantasy, however, can be quite rich. where else can I envision this perfect woman? She does not exist in reality. Real women are too real, too intense. A dream girl, however, I can't touch. I need the touch of other humans, especially sexy girls. Or silk and lace. I can decide right here, right now, whether I want to just fantasize for the rest of my life or actually confront reality and get aroused without any fantasy. Impossible! Let's just live the dream if we can. . .
I'll live the life that I want. I'll drive home from the university where I teach, pull the Porsche into the garage, and go into the house, dressed in my suit, and say hello to my wife, who does something on her own for her money. She'll kiss me hello, and follow me into the bedroom, where I remove my clothing and put on some of her lingerie, which I select. She'll stay clothed, and I'll just masturbate constantly as I worship the ground upon which she walkes, lick her feet, serve as her little french maid. I'm her slave. For all the time we're together, I'm hers. I keep my body shaven and my hair long like hers, and I put on jewelry and makeup like hers, and perfume. I'll be female for her. I'll even fuck her as she wants me to.
Physically, she's blonde, has firm fist sized tits, long silky legs, and lots of agressive spirit, and at the same time, lots of logic. She thinks just like me. She fantasizes about me, about me wearing her clothes and being her little lesbian bitch to fuck. She must be somewhat meatier than S__, but without an ounce of fat on her body. Her skin has to be as pale as mine, and as silky and hairless as is humanly possible.
On a more realistic level, I am seiously considering ordering lingerie through the mail. Whenever I get any kind of catalogue, I'll order a one-piece swimsuit, a bikini or two, silk panties, lace panties, both with matching bra, two one piece undies, one silky, the other lacy, a garter belt, and stockings to match. I'll get varieties of colours. That's pretty much all I need. When I have my own place, and I isolate myself, I'll shave my body hair to be totally femininely smooth, and live like a girl for a week or two. I'll wear only girls' clothes, I'll wear makeup and perfume, and maybe even skirts and dresses. I'll be masturbating constantly.
But I'll probably lose interest after a while. I'll regret it after I drop my first load. But I'll have to press on. I am determined. Doing this will either purge this from my system, or make it my sexual staple. Thinking about it makes me hope for the latter! How kinky it is, how depraved. I want to dress up like a girl again. How fantastic! I simply can't adequately describe the feeling of wanting to be a girl. I want to turn more and more into a girl every time I masturbate with girls' clothes on. After a couple of thousnd times, My dick will fall off, and I'll have a fully developed cunt in its place. Then I'll go and get laid. But I want to return to manhood each time, just so I can do it again. I love the way it humbles my masculinity. This is exactly what homophobia's all about: the fear of becoming feminine. I'm not afraid. I want it, badly, but only temporarily.
God help me though, that I'll never have the guts to do this with a girl, or even to let anyone at all know about it. That's part of the attraction, though. While I do it, I imagine myself sachaying femininely, confidently, as a faggoty transsexual wearing lingerie, pretending to be a girl. Let them drop their jaws in amazement as I show how unafraid I am of being feminine, of showing my own femininity. They're afraid of it. They'll never understand, because, they're so concerned with being male. I'll suck them off just for kicks, even though it doesn't turn me on to think of men, just to see them squirm as they realize that a man is doing it, and they enjoy it just as much. The horror! HAHA! Then I'll go and cavort with girls, giggly and frivolous, but just as feminine. Then I'll come all over myself from the experience. It's so naughty to think of being feminine. Men are afraid of losing their masculinity, but they don't realize how cool it is to be a girl. Argh! I've got to get those little black panties on!
I can just imagine it: in my isolation retreat, I get a visit from a man unexpectedly, and I seduce him. I tease him, letting him think that I am a girl for a while, and at the last minute show him my dick, and let him understand the power of femininity. It controls mankind. Although that's not the end for which I seek it. Now, off to bed, and a nice set of undies!
As expected, I am a bit shocked about what I wrote. I am not at all turned on by the homoeroticism right now. I can only think of pussy. I want some pussy. I need some pussy. I need to fuck a nice, lovely chick. But can I? I somehow doubt it. What is going on here? Am I wrecking myself, or what? Let me explain.
For a long time, I have found it impossible to get aroused when I'm with a girl. Not that I've had much opportunity. But I am not as turned on by them as perhaps I should be. I danced with CC__, and with B__ and with Br__, my band's groupies, and failed to get a woody. Br__ and C__ aren't exactly my type, but B__ is, despite her age. I can't imagine fucking her, though. I was so damned uncomfortable when Cr__ started making out with me last year. I felt nothing. Nothing at all. S__ scares me. She's cute, but I can't seem to feel horny for her enough to move on her. I don't even think I like her anymore. She hurt me so badly! I can't forgive her for that. I have a problem with women.
Ever since Br__ dumped me so horribly, I can't take sex seriously. It all seems to me to be a big mistake, an illusion that the whole world avidly believes in. It's such a facade. I can no longer think of sex seriously when confronted with the reality of it. It used to be so easy to idealise girls and worship them from afar, romantically, and when I finally got one, I maintained the fantasy. She was such an actress. The whole time, she was playing a role. I recall that time when she freaked out on the phone and ran screaming out of her apartment brandishing a knife. I raced up there, worried at first, but somehow, at the back of my mind, I knew that I had nothing to fear; that she was totally safe, not at all serious. It was the type of thing you see in a play or a movie. Real people don't take things so seriously. Indeed, she didn't. I found her later, and she admitted that she felt foolish, knowing that she wouldn't do anything with that knife. I knew it too, but I was just as bad as her by playing my own role.
Now I notice that people all around me do the same. I get nostalgic at times, watching the game unfold in front of me, and I hope for fortune to throw some sex goddess my way. Then, as I watch more closely, I begin to realize that it's all a fantasy, a way of looking at things. A woman, I once thought, is a totally different species. Socially, we segregate ourselves by sex at youth. Only later do our hormones pull us together. If not for that, perhaps we would stay away completely. As we mature, we keep these strange ideas about the opposite sex, and idealize them. When we fall in love, we feel like they are goddesses. We worship their diferences, because their physicality makes them something else. I spent fifteen months thinking of Br__ that way. She was a woman, an entity on her own only in that she was female. I couldn't care that she was human.
Now when I look at a girl, I see instead the similarities, and lose sexual interest. What's the use if they're essentially the same? A girl farts, shits, pisses, pukes, eats sleeps, etc. just like I do. There's nothing romantic about a couple of mounds of flesh on the chest, a tiny waist, big hips and a fleshy hole in the crotch. It's all human skin and fat and bone, It's all just like me, only built differently. When I think of tits, they seem to me to be nothing more than lumpy globs of fat with nipples on them. They're not so great. But when I see them, I am at first seized with intense desire and curiosity. It slowly fades. A cunt is a smelly bloody thing. It's not sexy in and of itself, either. Women seem top be soft, sort of childlike-featured adults. Big fucking deal. I imagine a girl sucking me off, remember that she must have done it many times before, and the romantic feeling disappears. The same with sex. How can it be special? It's just genital friction, marinated in illusions of romance, steeped in fantasy. It has no meaning.
S__ tells me about the guy she fucked at some trailer park on Victoria day weekend when she and her boyfriend annually break up. What's the attraction? She fucks another guy. She abandons every thought of the guy to whom she has attached herself for five long fucking years just for a meaningless fuck. Why did that bother me so much? Why did it make me so jealous? I used to jerk myself thinking of fucking her, and then, all of a sudden, the idea of her fucking the trailer park guy pops in and I go flaccid. Why does it bother me? I think it's because it so cruelly shatters my illusions of a somewhat permanent relationship. How can she betray her boyfriend like that? I have no problem imagining her fucking her boyfriend. But anyone else? It's painful. Perhaps I feel grossly inadequate at the same time. Why not me? It's both, I guess. Come to think of it, It must be the latter. The former is just a redirection of negative emotion. But it's partially valid, too. I feel so jealous when I think of it that way. Oh well.
The point is that reality has no place in sex. It's a fantasy world. That's why I enjoy dressing up in girl's panties so damned much. It's totally unreal, and there's no way that my fantasies can get shattered, because there's nobody there. It's futile to put girls on such a pedestal. The only charm they have is the hormonal fantasy they come close to. They are only as good as they are similar to the ephemeral dream-girl. That's why I don't even bother. I'm so tragically picky that I can't even imagine dating a girl right now. It's just too god-damned painful. It's so shattering. I don't like having my illusions destroyed. Sure, it enlightens me, but to what price? I'm sure I'll get over it soon. I just have to sort it out some more. This is very helpful, this writing.
Why must I be so hung up on this fantasy of femine perfection? Is everybody simply a slave to an ideal? Do they constantly strive to find that perfect person, and fail miserably every time, only to try again and again? Don't they realize how impossible it is to acheive something like that? Perhaps many do, yet they can continue. I myself have such a clear idea of what I want. That's how I fell in love with S__. One must want to fall in love for it to happen. People like my buddy E__ fall in love constantly. I fall in love once in a blue moon. I don't want to fall in love because I know that it will fail. Why bother? Sure, I can get sex. If I do end up being such a good friend too, I'm fucking a friend. Somehow, I realize now that I am no longer in love with S__, it seems disrespectful to want to fuck a friend. It's sort of insulting. It's a failure to see a person for what she really is. I don't know if I could fuck her if she gave me an opportunity. I could be such a good friend of hers, or I could lose all respect for her now that the veil in front of me has been removed. I think that I have lost a lot of respect for her since she threw herself at J__ right in front of me. Oh, how she wounded me! How could she? She broke my heart without even knowing it. That makes me realize even more that girls are just like us. Unlike my ideal, a real girl can be aroused by a whole multitude of men. That's totally fair, but it seems unfair. Why should reality be so different from fantasy? How can I relate, when these fantasies are innate? What can I do?
It seems that there are two options: live in a fantasy world, or live in reality. Fantasy seems awfully enticing. It's all under my own control. But reality is after all reality. I can count on it not to ever change. It's unpredictable, spontaneous, fulfilling. Fantasy is not. Fantasy, however, can be quite rich. where else can I envision this perfect woman? She does not exist in reality. Real women are too real, too intense. A dream girl, however, I can't touch. I need the touch of other humans, especially sexy girls. Or silk and lace. I can decide right here, right now, whether I want to just fantasize for the rest of my life or actually confront reality and get aroused without any fantasy. Impossible! Let's just live the dream if we can. . .
I'll live the life that I want. I'll drive home from the university where I teach, pull the Porsche into the garage, and go into the house, dressed in my suit, and say hello to my wife, who does something on her own for her money. She'll kiss me hello, and follow me into the bedroom, where I remove my clothing and put on some of her lingerie, which I select. She'll stay clothed, and I'll just masturbate constantly as I worship the ground upon which she walkes, lick her feet, serve as her little french maid. I'm her slave. For all the time we're together, I'm hers. I keep my body shaven and my hair long like hers, and I put on jewelry and makeup like hers, and perfume. I'll be female for her. I'll even fuck her as she wants me to.
Physically, she's blonde, has firm fist sized tits, long silky legs, and lots of agressive spirit, and at the same time, lots of logic. She thinks just like me. She fantasizes about me, about me wearing her clothes and being her little lesbian bitch to fuck. She must be somewhat meatier than S__, but without an ounce of fat on her body. Her skin has to be as pale as mine, and as silky and hairless as is humanly possible.
On a more realistic level, I am seiously considering ordering lingerie through the mail. Whenever I get any kind of catalogue, I'll order a one-piece swimsuit, a bikini or two, silk panties, lace panties, both with matching bra, two one piece undies, one silky, the other lacy, a garter belt, and stockings to match. I'll get varieties of colours. That's pretty much all I need. When I have my own place, and I isolate myself, I'll shave my body hair to be totally femininely smooth, and live like a girl for a week or two. I'll wear only girls' clothes, I'll wear makeup and perfume, and maybe even skirts and dresses. I'll be masturbating constantly.
But I'll probably lose interest after a while. I'll regret it after I drop my first load. But I'll have to press on. I am determined. Doing this will either purge this from my system, or make it my sexual staple. Thinking about it makes me hope for the latter! How kinky it is, how depraved. I want to dress up like a girl again. How fantastic! I simply can't adequately describe the feeling of wanting to be a girl. I want to turn more and more into a girl every time I masturbate with girls' clothes on. After a couple of thousnd times, My dick will fall off, and I'll have a fully developed cunt in its place. Then I'll go and get laid. But I want to return to manhood each time, just so I can do it again. I love the way it humbles my masculinity. This is exactly what homophobia's all about: the fear of becoming feminine. I'm not afraid. I want it, badly, but only temporarily.
God help me though, that I'll never have the guts to do this with a girl, or even to let anyone at all know about it. That's part of the attraction, though. While I do it, I imagine myself sachaying femininely, confidently, as a faggoty transsexual wearing lingerie, pretending to be a girl. Let them drop their jaws in amazement as I show how unafraid I am of being feminine, of showing my own femininity. They're afraid of it. They'll never understand, because, they're so concerned with being male. I'll suck them off just for kicks, even though it doesn't turn me on to think of men, just to see them squirm as they realize that a man is doing it, and they enjoy it just as much. The horror! HAHA! Then I'll go and cavort with girls, giggly and frivolous, but just as feminine. Then I'll come all over myself from the experience. It's so naughty to think of being feminine. Men are afraid of losing their masculinity, but they don't realize how cool it is to be a girl. Argh! I've got to get those little black panties on!
I can just imagine it: in my isolation retreat, I get a visit from a man unexpectedly, and I seduce him. I tease him, letting him think that I am a girl for a while, and at the last minute show him my dick, and let him understand the power of femininity. It controls mankind. Although that's not the end for which I seek it. Now, off to bed, and a nice set of undies!
Character study: Psychotic Killer Driven by Heartbreak
That was about three or four years ago. An adolescent eruption of self-pity, as it were. Today things are different. I can imagine hearing the same cry of despair in many people of all ages at this very moment, submitting to their darkest whims of self-inflicted, guilt-ridden torture. But I, having experienced that grotesque facet of human existence (or any existence, shurely?), I know better than that. I know, for instance, that one must seize the reins, the proverbial reins, as it were, of circumstance, and steer into more pleasant pastures. Or better yet, dangerous, but fulfilling pastures. I have led circumstances beyond the chicken wire fences erected by society, and all the misguided morality that fuels it, beyond the imaginary line that people paint between good and evil, right and wrong, acceptable or unacceptable. I see no more barriers, since I have taken to a different course entirely; I tread not on one side or the other of such distinctions, nor on the hazy line between them: I hover above, and swim beneath. I am the extra-dimensional man, since I decided that such two-dimensional thinking is simply absurd.
Who can honestly tell me that my actions have been any less morally upright than theirs? Frankly, only I can, because I can understand their moral stances, for all of the nasty contortions that make them so unique. Worst of all is that they secretly wallow in their own guilt and regret, as I did only a short time ago, and righteously damn me for things that they can only suspect me of. I lack a trustworthy face. I had always thought of myself as trustworthy, until I fully understood the power trust brings. It can be exploited like oil, or coal, or Amazon Rain Forests, or baby seals. They certainly do not appreciate it when they are betrayed, but that is the name of the game. Luckily, I never allow them to know that they have been betrayed, not until they chose to betray me. One must keep an eye out for such parasites. I have so few friends.
Those bastards . . . they perpetually want to suck you dry, without even telling you. They offer their goods, and deliver worthless trash instead. Why? Because all they want is to be liked, and to have a friend, one must betray another. Friends are made and kept by making enemies.
I only wanted to know what I was missing, although I thought I knew. A perfect match for the soul, two pieces of a puzzle linking together to form a perfect, beautiful, whole, eternally joined in a cosmic fate determined by some unexplained extra-dimensional phenomenon. And not only for the virtuous, but for everyone, good, bad, short, tall, ugly, beautiful, smart, or stupid. I knew exactly what I needed to complete my life: some hot chick with nice, firm round tits, an hourglass figure bottoming out in an ass I could hold in both hands, and a gorgeous face whose expression I would quiver in ecstasy to see in a moment of sexual abandon, glistening with sweat and moaning for more, softly into my ear . . . Of course, she would also have to have a brilliant mind. As far as I was concerned, my fate would grant me all of this, just out of the simple justice of nature.
Alas, such women are so difficult to find. One must imagine them, or glaze over with one's tongue hanging out at the lovely pictures in dirty magazines, who would naturally be as brilliant as the observer, at least insofar as the fantasies go. Nature itself, through so many centuries of literature, has never gone wrong before, so why would it not happen for me? Especially when I needed it most, at such a crucial point in life, which would be certain to determine the course of my existence. Hey, suicide is preferable to the injustice of being denied of one's constitutionally guaranteed right to the Perfect SoulMate(R)(C). Luckily, I was offered the next best thing: a wholly inadequate, mentally depraved youngster who desperately needed the kind of pity I turned onto myself to survive, because she reasoned in a moment of brilliant self-torture that her own pity simply was not good enough. Happily, I dumped my pathos onto her troubles, which seemed to shrink into microscopic size next to hers.
It has been nearly a year since we stopped our lengthy affair, and I dropped back into depression worse than before. So I killed her. End of Story. I wish I knew how I turned out.
Who can honestly tell me that my actions have been any less morally upright than theirs? Frankly, only I can, because I can understand their moral stances, for all of the nasty contortions that make them so unique. Worst of all is that they secretly wallow in their own guilt and regret, as I did only a short time ago, and righteously damn me for things that they can only suspect me of. I lack a trustworthy face. I had always thought of myself as trustworthy, until I fully understood the power trust brings. It can be exploited like oil, or coal, or Amazon Rain Forests, or baby seals. They certainly do not appreciate it when they are betrayed, but that is the name of the game. Luckily, I never allow them to know that they have been betrayed, not until they chose to betray me. One must keep an eye out for such parasites. I have so few friends.
Those bastards . . . they perpetually want to suck you dry, without even telling you. They offer their goods, and deliver worthless trash instead. Why? Because all they want is to be liked, and to have a friend, one must betray another. Friends are made and kept by making enemies.
I only wanted to know what I was missing, although I thought I knew. A perfect match for the soul, two pieces of a puzzle linking together to form a perfect, beautiful, whole, eternally joined in a cosmic fate determined by some unexplained extra-dimensional phenomenon. And not only for the virtuous, but for everyone, good, bad, short, tall, ugly, beautiful, smart, or stupid. I knew exactly what I needed to complete my life: some hot chick with nice, firm round tits, an hourglass figure bottoming out in an ass I could hold in both hands, and a gorgeous face whose expression I would quiver in ecstasy to see in a moment of sexual abandon, glistening with sweat and moaning for more, softly into my ear . . . Of course, she would also have to have a brilliant mind. As far as I was concerned, my fate would grant me all of this, just out of the simple justice of nature.
Alas, such women are so difficult to find. One must imagine them, or glaze over with one's tongue hanging out at the lovely pictures in dirty magazines, who would naturally be as brilliant as the observer, at least insofar as the fantasies go. Nature itself, through so many centuries of literature, has never gone wrong before, so why would it not happen for me? Especially when I needed it most, at such a crucial point in life, which would be certain to determine the course of my existence. Hey, suicide is preferable to the injustice of being denied of one's constitutionally guaranteed right to the Perfect SoulMate(R)(C). Luckily, I was offered the next best thing: a wholly inadequate, mentally depraved youngster who desperately needed the kind of pity I turned onto myself to survive, because she reasoned in a moment of brilliant self-torture that her own pity simply was not good enough. Happily, I dumped my pathos onto her troubles, which seemed to shrink into microscopic size next to hers.
It has been nearly a year since we stopped our lengthy affair, and I dropped back into depression worse than before. So I killed her. End of Story. I wish I knew how I turned out.
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