24 Hours En Femme: a Follow-Up

After I wrote about my day dressed as a woman, I took a long bath in the Jacuzzi tub. I played for a bit with my bathing suits, since I couldn't leave them out of the picture. I modeled each of them in the bathroom mirror, one after the other. It was such a tease, so different from my usual furtive sessions. I settled on the one-piece, which for whatever reason felt the most feminine to me. I tried to draw it out as long as possible, but I came pretty quickly, and very hard. While in the bath, planning my night's escapades, I had decided that I would taste my own jizz, as a way of succumbing to my desire for a feminine experience, so I slurped up some of it, even as the pink fog was lifting. It tasted gamy, not altogether bad, but overall quite gross. It's very hard to remain in the right frame of mind to enjoy it. Nonetheless, I was still excited about sleeping in panties and a nightie. I was fully committed to it.

I had washed some of my lingerie, and had it drying on my towel rack, and it was liberating having all my feminine stuff out in the open. I put on my nightie and panties, and got ready for bed. I had tossed my drab pajamas in the hamper already. As expected, I could hardly help myself from luxuriating in feelings of femininity and reckless abandon. I could take my time, enjoy the idea of remaining in my feminine attire all night, and probably repeat the experience, multiple times.

I eventually dozed off, sleeping uneasily with my tired arousal keeping me in a state of semi-sleep. At some point, the baby woke up crying. He had never seen me in such an outfit, and I had to think about whether to change or not. In the end, I thought it best to just remain in my nightie. I comforted him for a good 30 minutes, rocking him back to sleep while wearing panties and a satiny nightgown! I was a little bit uncomfortable about it. What if he somehow remembers someday? Did he even notice at all? Certainly he rested his head on my bare shoulder, which is usually covered in a t-shirt.

In the morning, I brought myself to climax yet again, and thoroughly exhausted my drive to dress like a woman all day. I had decided to return a couple of things to the store, because I have far too much girlie stuff now to easily conceal. So I ended up not keeping the sports leggings, which I had planned to wear that day. I put them on one last time, and loved how comfy and cozy and sexy they were, and questioned my decision. But in the end, I had to part with them before I ruined them.

I was done for the time being. I cleaned up after myself, the guilt and shame washing over me in anticipation of T__'s return. I was anxious about leaving some trace of my activities. In the end, everything was fine, and she remained oblivious. I was a bit disappointed in my lack of determination to see my plan through, but in the end I came only a couple of hours short. 

Thinking back on it now, I fondly remember pushing the stroller around the neighborhood with girl clothes just under the surface, partly visible, and wish I could do it again soon. I think I might even do it in women's leggings, in public, for all to see, because who even cares? I even put on the dress and tights and shoes last week again during a brief moment alone at home, and thoroughly loved it.

Diary: What's Gotten Into Me?

I have started experimenting with anal penetration.  My experiments were so successful that I’m afraid to continue with them.  I’m not sure where this fits in with my other fantasies anymore, as it’s the sheer physical sensation that wins out, rather than any fantasy about getting fucked.  It’s quite a feminine shock to realize that something has been inside me.

I want to explore this whole idea of being exposed to femininity, and enjoying it, and realizing that enjoyment means enjoying everything that goes with being female.  It starts out when you realize that you like girls’ clothes, not even for wearing them yourself, but just because they’re so obviously sexy.  Then you realize that it would be fun to wear them, fun to see how pretty they make you feel.  Then you realize that wearing them compromises your manhood, and that you’d better stop before you start developing a taste for it.  But it’s already far too late.  It’s a foregone conclusion from the moment the idea first entered your head.  Now you’re picturing yourself in a bikini, and fantasizing about how wonderful girls look in bikinis, and how it would be so cool, so sexy if you could experience that sexiness first hand.  You want to be the girl in the bikini.  You start off slow, just fondling it, because you know that’s almost normal.  But you can’t take it anymore, and you have to touch the panties with your dick.  Not even that is enough.  You need the full effect.  You put them on, and it’s more amazing than you dreamed.  You keep some article of manhood on you, just in case, because you know you’re losing your grip on your manhood.  You imagine yourself wearing all kinds of women’s clothes, from bikinis to swimsuits to underwear and lingerie and summer dresses and sandals.  You want desperately to give yourself up completely to it, but you don’t dare, because you know that it’s too dangerous, that you’ll like it too much.  You’ve already gone too far by now, but you don’t care.  You want to go further.  You can’t help yourself from trying it again and again, with different clothes.  You’re wearing the matching bra now, even though it doesn’t touch your cock, just because it makes you feel even more feminine.  You know there’s no cheating involved now.  You’ve wanted it all along, you realize, and you’re finally doing it.  You’re glad you’ve gone too far.  Every new experiment, every moment of complete abandon drives home the reality that you’re getting more and more effeminated.  Why else would you now be buying your own lingerie?  You’ve started shaving your body to get that smooth, female skin, and so you can feel what a woman feels when she wears stockings.  You begin to fantasize about fucking men.  Eventually you discover just how pleasant it is to shove things in your ass, and pretend it’s a dick.  You know you’re teetering on the edge of homosexuality, but you don’t care!  You love it!  You start to fantasize about taking hormones and growing titties, and above all having an hourglass figure.  Pretty soon, you do it, and you’ve finally caved in and begun to make those irreversible physical changes that were inevitable from the moment you first realized that you like girls’ clothes.

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: Leaving Town With Shaven Legs

I'm a week away from beginning my trip to California, where I will spend the next year or so of my life.  Hockey season is over, and most of the people I know will not see me again for a while -- or at least, they won't have any reason to see my legs.


Which is a bit of a shame, really, considering how they look shaved.  

For the first time ever, I have completely shaven my legs.

I shaved them some seven years ago, but only partly, shortly before I met A__.  I bought a satiny lingerie outfit, with white fishnet stockings and a garter belt, for that occasion.  I have nothing new yet this time, but I did shave as much of my leg hair as I could.  It only took me about an hour, too.

I quickly showered to clean up any loose hair, and discovered the radically different texture of shaven legs.  My skin is so soft, so smooth, so slippery when wet.  Lathering my legs with soap was strange, because the soap had no hair to cling to.  I got horny rubbing my legs to clean them.  Even drying them was a new experience.

As soon as I dried off, I slipped on some black stockings, and hooked them onto my garter belt.  I have never seen my stockings cling so easily to my legs.  I have effeminate legs, covered in sheer nylon!  And they will be like this for a few days at least, before the hair starts growing back.  So I might as well enjoy this while I can.  I won't look normal again for another 3 or 4 weeks.

Diary: Realizing that I Want to Be a Girl; the Seed, Planted; and, the Mad Scientist

I was right.  I want to be a girl getting fucked.  The idea is to become female, or at least feminine.  It's not about becoming mock-feminine, but the real thing.  I want to have a cunt, so that I can wear all that women wear, but especially so that I can fuck like a girl.  Strangely, it's not that I have homosexual fantasies.  I am a girl in my fantasies.  I have imagined being a fag before, and sometimes it turns me on; but not like girls do--not nearly to the same extent.  No, I want to have a dick in me only to feel like a girl.  I'd rather be a lesbian, because girls appeal to me so much more.  

A__ [my girlfriend] told me about a man she read about in the Enquirer: he was in love with Elle MacPherson, and in his blind obsession, transformed himself into a look-alike of her.  He became a beautiful woman.  The thought excites me.  It reminded me of the man I once heard about on TV who was so good at looking like a girl that he made it into a James Bond movie as a bikini-clad extra.  He has since become a girl.  Those stories simply captivate me.  Then I think of that story I read about the sorority house.  What a fantasy!  To have women teach me how to become like them.  They would make me take hormones to get a feminine body, and I would practice walking around in women's clothing, and acting like a girl.  An irreversible, and tantalizingly slow, transformation.  

But here's what I'm really excited about: A__ [my girlfriend] asked me if I could house-sit for her family while they're away on vacation.  

Imagine that!  I would have access to whatever scraps of clothing she leaves behind for me!  I could go to her house after work, or in the evening, and have my own little panty fashion show.  I could wear that bathing suit that she never wears.  I could wear her lingerie.  I could wear her dresses, her skirts, her blouses. . . anything.  And I would have no fear of discovery.  Total privacy.  I only hope that it comes to pass...

Anyway, I was thinking about another aspect of my fantasy, and it led me to thoughts of bikinis and silky undergarments.  

There is always that notion of becoming female without really knowing it, having the effeminacy sneak up on me.  Wear pantyhose on a dare one time, or whatever, and slowly become hooked for life on dressing up like a girl.  The typical scenario, in other words.  But here's the twist: it's always private in real life, and it's always public in fantasy.  In my fantasies, the girls always force me to wear their panties, or entice me into becoming pretty like them, or whatever; in private, I hide myself to make sure that no one ever finds out what I do.  Clearly, it's because I love it so much that I want it to be, in a way, public; I want to celebrate my femininity all out.  But I can't without suffering the consequences of eternal shame.  In my fantasies, shame is only a momentary accident of my situation; I have to deal with it as I first experience it; or someone is behind the whole thing, tricking me into doing it.  I still love the idea: someone leaves her panties around for me to sniff, and takes all of mine away, leaving me no choice; I have to put them on, but I don't want to take them off; I do it more and more; and it's all from her secret machinations; and I eventually become like her, and she reveals her evil plan, of which I am not surprised, but grateful.  I fantasize, in short, about my entire development as a trannie being some woman's plan to effeminate me.  She always supplied things for me, and induced thoughts of underwear and swimsuits to get me to use them.  Until the moment when I'm totally hooked.

I like this idea.  What if this were the case?  She only needed to plant them once or twice; I did the rest myself.  I convinced myself that I could stop, but I knew deep down that the more I did it, the worse it would get.  I remember thinking one time, while wearing pantyhose or something, that if I don't stop doing this soon I'll start wearing bikinis.  And I remember thinking, deep down, God, I sure hope so.  And I soon did, too.  At another point, wearing a bikini, I probably thought, one of these days, if I don't stop soon, I'll have my own lingerie, and I'll shave my legs, and be very female. And I eventually did that, too.  That's probably why I never could stop for very long: the promise of it getting worse.

My God!  I wore a bikini when I was pretty young!  And God, what an amazing experience it was!  God, how I wish for femininity when I wear women's underwear!  I fantasized always about the prospect of having to wear lingerie forever, and become forever more female.  That's what I want to do right now.  

I can't believe it, but I know that it's true: I have worn lingerie, directly on my body, without anything to protect me from it.  And I once thought that I needed protection, or else I would succumb to abject girlishness.  I wore my own underwear underneath my pantihose, for fear of it compelling me to go further.  If I wear this naked, I thought, I'll want to wear bathing suits and underwear, too.  Pantyhose, I thought, isn't so bad.  But Lord, I wouldn't dare ever wear a bikini or some panties.  I'd be some kind of freakish fag boy or something.  I didn't want to want to wear women's clothing.  Or so I thought.  The thought of wearing it naked made me even hornier, made me want to do it rather than fear the consequences.  I think that that was the point.  I feared that I would become more feminine, not knowing that I was trying to become more feminine.  There was nothing I wanted more.  It was a fantasy: if I do wear this naked, then my fantasy might come true.  At any rate, I couldn't control myself.  I had to wear it naked.  I had to find out how it felt.  And boy, was I ever right: I did end up wearing much crazier things, like bathing suits, panties, bras, bikinis, lingerie, tights. . . And every minute until I started this long diary I hated what I was becoming.  I didn't want to admit that I want to be a girl, that I want to revel in feminine sexuality.  Oh, no!  I've worn women's underwear!  What will happen to me next?  Will I want to wear it again?  (You bet!)  Will I start wearing bikinis, too?  (Oh, God I hope so!)  Will I start wearing it more and more often?  (Oh, if only I could wear it all the time!)  Fear actually fed my fantasies.  It wasn't even fear: it was desire disguised as fear.  Or else I was afraid of my strange desires.


I still have to tell you about my new twist.  But after this fantasy that I dreamed up:

I'm a mad scientist, and I capture some young homeless man for my experiment.  I want to force him to wear women's clothes, and see if I can transform him into a woman, not against his will, but entirely by it.  I would imprison him and leave him only lingerie to wear.  I would reward him for wearing it.  All of this time, however, I would be doing this in the name of science.  I would be getting no pleasure out of it.  
Slowly, my victim would become female, but against his will.  He would be perpetually angry about it.  But he would get used to it, and never go back completely.  But my experiment would seem to prove that I cannot change a man psychologically into a woman.

But he would want his revenge.  Or, from a different perspective, he would want to express his gratitude.  One day, while my guard is down, he would submit me to the same experiment.  He would capture me and put me through exactly what I put him through.  Only I would prove that it is possible to turn a man into a woman.  I would bawl louder than him at first about my plight, knowing what lies in store for me; but eventually I would succumb with all my will to femininity.  I would wear everything he gives me, and become a completely effeminated man, and I would love every second of it.  I would love to have the freedom to wear only women's clothes, and masturbate all over them all day, every day, in an effort to become female.  I would secure a razor and some hormones by which to transform myself.  I would make myself his bitch in gratitude.  I would love it, too.  The End.

Here's the long awaited twist in my fantasies:


I'm the type of guy who cross dresses every now and then for fun.  I like it.  A lot.  But it's my secret.  I started it myself.  Nobody knows about it.  Nobody got me started on it, honestly or not.  I am a self-made transvestite girlie wanna-be.  And I try to become female in private.  And only in private.

Only I get caught.  By my girlfriend.  She has a few options: she can freak out, walk away and tell everyone about it; she can freak out, and keep quiet about it; she can freak out, and have fun with it.  In any case, she knows.  And there are fun possibilities.  

It's hard to write about; but for some reason, the possibility of getting caught exhilarated me today.  Imagine if she finds out, and dumps me, and tells everyone.  Then everyone knows what I do.  Oh, well, might as well come out of the closet, eh?  I'll shave my legs and become a girlie.  And I'll like it.  Or else she'll try to indulge me, because she likes seeing me get turned on.  Yeeeeeee-haw!  

It's very hard to describe my exhilaration.  But I was very excited by the prospect.  I suppose it just reminded me of my stockpile.  Or my stockpile reminded me of it.  I don't know what it is.  I guess it just drives home the fact that I wear women's clothing, and that I have several items of it hidden in my room.

Diary: The Bikini Shopping Experience

I'll bet you thought I could never bring myself to do it.  Didn't you.  You doubted my desire to effeminate myself, didn't you.  You thought I was just talking big, as I had for so many years, about so many things regarding my budding girlish tendencies.  You thought I would have second thoughts about the whole project and chicken out.

To tell you the honest truth, so did I.

On Friday, I could hardly bring myself to stroll through the department stores to look at what kinds of bikinis I might buy.  I was already sweating profusely.  My shirt wrinkled with the hot sweat.  I just couldn't even look.  Despondently, I figured that perhaps it's not really worth the trouble.  I thought that maybe it's not that important to me to get a bikini.  I thought that I had boasted in a moment of weakness about being able to accomplish something beyond my abilities.  I thought that perhaps I should keep my fantasies in the bedroom, in private, and not bother about fulfilling the impossible.

Today, while at work, I thought about bikinis again.  It never really left my mind.  I only postponed my actions, in a moment of doubt.  I needed to be impulsive again, just like I had been when I bought my lingerie on the spur of a moment, according to some half-baked plan.  I only thought about it peripherally today, not like I had last week, when I couldn't think of anything else.  It was a brief flash of a reminder of my boast.


I came home with the intention of resting all night.  I couldn't forget that I had originally planned my purchase for tonight.  I ate without even thinking about it.  I wasn't horny at all.  Too tired.  I retired to the computer to play a bit of NHL96, when I looked at the time on my watch, entertaining very briefly the notion that I should finish my game soon and go shopping.  The notion grew, and I became more and more nervous.  I became thirsty, and I had gas.  I was farting continually.  I felt feverish.  At about twenty past eight, I ended my game, and went to the washroom to collect my thoughts.  I imagined that I would still have time to go to the [mall] before it closes at nine o'clock.  If that is indeed the time that it closes on Monday evenings.  I put on my red flannel shirt and went downstairs to ask Dad for the car keys.  Impulsively.  I just did it, without thinking about it too much.  I didn't even think of an answer in case anyone asked where I planned to go.  Mom was meditating in her room, and I had no access to any car keys until shortly after eight thirty.  Then I confidently strode into her room and took Dad's keys, and took off.  I changed into my grey denim shirt to look a bit less conspicuous.  I was on my way, before I even knew it.

I was putting on my shoes when the doorbell rang, and there was a young girl canvassing for charity.  I had to tell her that I had no time (which was totally true).  I had been fumbling with the laces, not tying my boots quite right in my nervous state.  I collected myself and tied them up properly.  I hopped into the car and rushed at 120km/h to the [mall].

I parked very close to the usual entrance at Sears, where I had briefly spied some bikinis while walking through there with A__ [my girlfriend] on Friday.  I headed for that section, hoping to sneak into it rather than heading straight for it from the aisle.  I didn't want to look too conspicuous.  There were a few other shoppers around.  

The only bikinis there faced the aisle.  There was no way to even examine anything without anyone noticing.  Fortunately, there was a gentleman looking at swimsuits already.  I didn't feel so out of place.  I didn't even look at him much, and went to work.  

I went around the display, inspecting the wares.  The one that caught my eye was reddish or pinkish, with large flowers.  It was a mix and match affair: grab a panty and match it with a bra.  I flipped through the rack, past the size tens and size fourteens and size eights until I found a little size six.  Then I picked up the first bra available, when I noticed that it cost $19,99 per item.  Perfect.  Cheap.  Pretty.  I thought it was maybe a little large, but I had little choice.  All the other panties were in a similar style, or worse.  I brought it to the register, which was right there.  I stood there for a moment looking for it, trying to not look self-conscious, with a bikini in my hands.  The casiher came to the counter, and didn't say anything more than necessary.  No funny looks, no questions, nothing.  She just rang through the sale, bagged it, and gave me my change.  I headed for the door with a Sears bag containing a bikini.  I could hardly believe it.  I had shelled out $50 for a bikini.  I now own a bikini.  I don't think it's quite sunk in yet.  I had no idea what to do with the bag and the hangers that she had included with my bikini.  I hadn't planned for that yet.

When I finally drove away, at about five minutes to nine, I told myself that, Yes, I now own a bikini.  I just bought skimpy women's swimwear.  I drove to the parking lot beside the local video store, ripped the tags off the bikini, and stuffed it in my pants.  I tossed the bag out the door and went home.

As is traditional when I acquire new clothing, I almost immediately dressed up in it.  I'm wearing it now, as a matter of fact.  I am wearing a bikini under my clothes.  A tight little feminine bikini.  

It fits nice and tightly, although the front is a little high.  It covers my whole penis.  However, it does expose all of my thighs.  The elastic clings to the top of my hips.  It's wonderfully snug.  The bra has straps and pads.  It's by far the most interesting bikini bra I've ever owned.  The straps are ideal.  I love them.  The cups are pretty and accentuate breasts.  The material is that type of soft lycra, I think.  It's very nice.  I'm still a little shocked about the whole experience, so I'm not all that horny.  I feel a bit ill.  I will, however, use it tonight.  There is no way around it.

A moment of irony: I put away my laundry today, and found a strange pair of jeans that looked vaguely familiar.  I brought them downstairs, and mom told me that they were hers: she had taken an old pair of my jeans because they fit her.  So the day that I buy my bikini, I discover that Mom is wearing my clothes, just as I had worn hers.

So I, new bikini owner, will go pleasure myself.

Diary: An Early Christmas Gift

Tonight I received an unexpected Christmas gift.  

A__ decided to please me by buying herself some lingerie.  She would wear it for me as a turn on.  She had already bought me some clothes, and I felt awful that she would spend so much money on me when I couldn't possibly do the same for her, so I told her to not buy me anything big for Christmas, or else I would feel even worse.  And I would have, too.  But now I feel quite giddy, and incredibly lucky.  I wonder how much coincidence went into this (an inevitable coincidence, I would think) and how much, dare I imagine, full knowledge went into it.

The situation is quite fortuitous, and quite bizarrely so.  I never expected it, and even, with my last shred of decency, hoped that I wouldn't have to deal with this.  But now I have some of A__'s lingerie in my room at her request.  I did not steal it.  I did not ask for it.  She insisted on keeping it here, rather than bringing it home and having to answer her mother's questions.  The strangest thing of all was the conversation that went with this strange turn of events.

She presented it to me as a gift.  In a way, it's more for me than it is for her.  And she hasn't gotten me anything else.  So she had to give me something, even if it's meant, in effect for her.  So already, it strangely belongs to me in a very concrete way.  I peeled off the wrapping paper, and peeked into the box, which I had trouble opening, and she shook the flap at me, and showed me breifly what was inside: a velvety matching panty and bra set.  I took it out and giggled.  "You want to try it on?" she teased.  I wonder how much sincerity was in that question.  I easily deflected that insinuation, as joking as it was.  She then asked if I could keep it here, under my pillow or something.  "I don't see why.  What am I going to do with it?" I protested quite diplomatically.  She agreed, and put it back into the box.  Later she took up her request again, and explained exactly why.  I had been kicking myself because I desperately wanted her to leave it here, but decency, pride, and a desire to uphold my innocence had overridden that instinct.  This time, there was no reason to refuse, and I rejoiced.

The terrific thing is that I had been looking forward to wearing something tonight.  I figured that I wouldn't be messing around with A__ anytime soon, so this was the perfect opportunity to get feminine.  And suddenly, this lingerie drops into my lap.  Merry Christmas!

A funny note: last night, A__ revealed to me that she once made her little brother wear a dress, because she wanted a sister--an idea intriguing enough by itself.  Then she asked, "Didn't you ever put on your mom's dresses when you were young?"  as if it were a perfectly normal thing for me to have done.  I wonder what she would have said if I had said yes, jokingly of course?  Anyway, despite all of this strangeness, which she has never brought up before (it has always been brought up by me as a silly sort of joke, and she expects silliness from me), I don't believe that she has the slightest clue about my secret fantasies.  I think I would be able to tell if she did.  She wouldn't talk about it like that.  Oh well.  Who knows?  Maybe she wants me to wear her lingerie, and become her little sister.  She did after all say something to the effect that if I were her little brother, she would have made me wear dresses, too.  I wish.

Diary: Taking the Plunge

It is important to date this section, because something of grave importance has happened in the past few days.  Finally, I have taken a huge plunge, and done something outrageously bold.  In fact, I have done two outrageously bold things, quite suddenly.  I can't even remember what set me off in the first place.  I just suddenly felt like I needed to womanize a bit more.

I suppose it comes from the culmination of several factors all at once.  Firstly, I have severed my friendship with S__.  My long, hopeless crush on her, which had dragged on for more than a year, finally ended about a week and a half ago.  Since then, I have felt contemptuous about any relationship with any woman.  I have come to feel so bitter about women that I can't fantasize about them without getting too angry at S__ to continue.  Also, the winter has come.  That means more clothes, and a pretext for covering my body at all times.  And finally, the semester has ended, and I have more free time.  But you still don't know what I've done, do you?

It's quite insane, actually.  I have gone quite overboard, this time.  I suppose on Thursday, after all my tests and stuff had ended, I needed a release of tension.  Since I couldn't fantasize and moap about S__, or any other woman, I concentrated on my inner woman.  I frolicked joyfully in my stolen panties, and felt only temporarily satisfied.  I resolved, rather impulsively, to go one step futher the next time, since it will be easy to get away with.  My plan came upon a glitch on Friday, when i learned that Dad was staying home.  But I waited for him to leave, and I shaved my left leg.

It was a long, arduous process.  I was hesitant at first, but finally, I decided to say, Fuck It, and did as much as I could.  I was so beautifully awkward: I started with my electric razor, over the sink.  That got messy and contorting, so I got an extension cord, and shaved in the bathtub.  I sweated like a pig for about forty minutes, and didn't get to finish the job.  But most of it is gone, cleanly enough.  When I rub downwards, it's baby smooth.  It feels so different.  Then it occurred to me to use the safety razor.  That helped a lot.  It finished the job, pretty much, on my left leg.  I immediately tried on my crude stockings, and discovered that they stick more to a feminine, smooth leg like my left one had become, than to a hairy leg like my right one.  I was determined to shave it, too, but I had just run out of time.  I had lots of fun with that contraption, and very quickly.  I felt so fulfilled, but ready to go at it yet again.  But I had no time, and little privacy, so I desisted, after making a bit of a mess on my comforter in my spontaneous, uncontrollable glee.

I think I had decided at some point while I shaved that the true test of this would be some lingerie, particularly some fishnet stockings.  I had never worn any, I don't think.  And I wanted to get some thigh-highs to really enjoy the moment.  And it wouldn't be worth it, I reasoned, without a nice silky teddy.  So I swore that I would finally take the plunge and buy some.  I thought that I would go to the place near [the rehearsal studio], after work.  I only had to avoid R__, and other people, and I would get away with it, I thought.

But I had forgotten in my enthusiasm that I got off work at only 16:15 at the earliest.  I feared that the place would close before I got there.  But I was determined.  I had to do it.  It was ill-conceived in my head, as all good impulsive plans should be.  I would pretend to buy something for my girlfriend.  If anyone asked, it would be S__.  I didn't know what else to think.  I had to get size Small, too, so that the fit would be nice and tight.  So all day I thought about it, about how I would come home, take a shower right away, and rather than cleaning myself, I would shave my right leg.

By the time my shift ended, it was 16:30.  I was running late.  I wheeled out of there in the snow, a bit nervous.  The traffic was awful.  I could hardly believe what I was doing.  I had to remind myself before I left that I had a plan.  So I drove over to R__'s.  I had trouble finding the place at first, but now I know where it is.  Unfortunately, it was closed.  But I had to have something by the end of the day, otherwise, it would simply not be worth my having shaven my leg.  So I found a phone booth, looked up "LINGERIE" in the Yellow Pages, but discovered that all those listed were out of the way.  The closest was in [big fancy] Mall, which I decided against, because it would be too expensive, and far too crowded.  I didn't want to lose my cool.  So I decided to go to [cut-rate somewhat cheesy lingerie shop].  I had passed by there many times on the bus.

So there I went, unsure what my follow up plan would be.  I got there, and discovered to my delight that it was open.  But I was nervous as Hell.  I sat there still for a moment, in the car, breathing in deep to decide whether or not I wanted to go through with it or not, after all.  I got out of the car, and strode confidently, but humbly, to the store.  In I went.

I went straight to the counter, and told the clerk that I was looking for something for my girlfriend for Christmas.  With my confidence, and with it being a pretty normal situation, she totally bought it.  She showed me a bustier, and told me where to look.  I browsed around for a while.  The selection was rather small, for what I wanted.  I only found one nice white teddy.  The bustiers all came with matching see-thru G-strings, which I did not want.  I had found a slightly tacky store, which I was afraid of.  But what choice did I have?  After a bit of head scratching, I picked out a satiny teddy with a lacy pattern, but without garters, and asked the clerk if there were anything of the kind with garters attached.  No, she answered, but it would look good with a garter belt.  She showed me two kinds, and I took a lacy one rather than a satiny one.  It looked very pretty.  Then I asked for fishnet stockings.  The whole thing cost me $75.88.  I had planned on spending no more than $60.00.  So I shelled out the cash, and made off with the lingerie.  When I got to the car, I took it out of the box, and stuffed it into my gym-bag's side pocket.  I planned to ditch the box, but I managed to conceal it, instead.  I can use it for Christmas gifts.  So I felt very strange, having lingerie in my gym-bag, and went to buy a winter coat [at another store, obviously], and went home.

I finally got into the shower, and shaved as much as I could, which wasn't very much, maybe half, of my right leg.  I learned the magic of lather.  Then, when I had cleaned up, I proceeded to get all dressed up.  I felt really cool bringing only that as underwear into the bathroom.  I felt subduedly feminine.  Then I put on the garter belt and the teddy, adjusted the teddy, stepped into the stockings, snapped them on, and put my clothes on over it all.  So as I type this, I'm wearing a woman's lingerie outfit.  Unfortunately, it's not all I hoped.  The teddy is wedgieing me viciously (I'll have to readjust) and isn't tight-fitting enough.  The fishnets aren't soft, but they are weird feeling.  I will certainly like them.  I love the garter belt like I would love a bra: it's very pretty, and very feminine; but it doesn't touch any errogenous zone.  But I will learn to enjoy this.  The teddy's material is very soft, and I will enjoy having my horrible male organ in there, struggling to be free as I rub some girlishness into it.  And that very idea turns me on so goddamned much.  My Goddess, I'm wearing lingerie, and it's all mine!  And it's white, and silky, and lacy. . . And I can use the garter belt with my panties. . . And I love the whole thing!  I love effeminating myself.  My legs are shaven underneath the fishnets.  This is probably going to be a very rare event indeed.  I just hope the leg hair grows back before [my ski trip in early January].  Or so I say.  I hope the rest of my leg hair falls out, along with all of my excessive body hair, and I grow tits, hips, get a waist, have my voice go up a few octaves, all while I rub away my penis and turn it into a cunt, slowly, pleasurably, and agonizingly, horribly, exquisitely adore every minute of it!  Ah, the deconstruction of masculinity is so incredibly fun.  I should be so afraid of becoming female, and I am, and that's why I'm doing this.  I want to become female, because I know that society wants me to be afraid of it, wants me to disdain femininity in myself; but I also know that when I wear girls' clothes, I admit defeat.  I admit that I am not worth being male.  I fall to my knees in shame, not only because I am effeminated, but because I LOVE the fact that I'm effeminating.  That's the key: it's bad enough to wear lingerie when you know that it's the most unpardonably feminine thing to do; it's passing the point of no return (or so you hope/fear) to actually enjoy it.  What if I do turn into a girl?  Wouldn't that be frightening?  Wouldn't that be most wonderful?  Ah, I can't take it anymore!  I must go and accept my femininity.  Goddessdamnit, I've even shaven my legs!

Diary: the Truth Will Set You Free

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