Trans-transsexual?

Over the years, my understanding about my compulsion for feminizing myself has evolved. Over the same time period, transsexualism has become more and more mainstream, and many things have changed with social acceptance as well as how it's understood by science. 

I've been thinking of myself as a cross-dresser. I met with a sex therapist, who told me unequivocally that I am not transsexual, and that I don't have gender dysphoria. I simply have a sexual fetish for making myself feminine, which is very common.

Some of you reading this might have a powerful negative reaction: this sounds suspiciously like autogynephilia, which has been emphatically discredited for years. I'm certainly trans, you'd say, and I'm being misled and prevented from becoming my true female self!

Well, I'm not here to argue one way or the other. The truth is, I don't know: am I truly a woman in a man's body? Am I in denial?

It's always been an extremely sexual thing for me. In all but the most private settings, I'm a man. There's nothing feminine about the way I present myself. My family and my career are built on a masculine identity. These are incredibly valuable to me. Over the years, I've come to think of my sexual inclination to be female as a benign delusion, which quickly dissipates when I fulfill it -- the "pink cloud" as it were. But there's no question that at times I intensely wish I were female. I ponder how I could make it real. The closest I've come is to wear women's clothes occasionally.

So basically, by the current conventional wisdom, I'm definitely trans. If I look deeper than my sexual fulfillment, I am indeed a woman. I've rationalized away my dysphoria. I should embrace my true feminine self, and come out as the woman I've always been, but have been afraid to let out.

This is highly appealing to me at one level, but unacceptable due to the risk on my family and career.

It occurred to me the other day that the conventional wisdom has a flaw, which many have pointed out: gender is a continuum, not a binary. It's highly complex. However, for anyone wanting to transition to womanhood, there's a requirement to present as a conventional representation of a woman. It's necessary to prove that you can live your life as what most people would consider a female public identity. But what if I don't want my feminine identity to be public? I do want to be female, but I also want my family and colleagues to continue to think of me as male. Why can't I be female in private, and present myself as male when I choose? Why is that not a valid option?

Basically, the ideal way forward for me would be to transition to female (complete with surgery, hormones, etc.), but in public, continue to show my male persona. Nobody in public needs to know what sort of genitals I have! If I ever do want to go out in public as a woman, I could do that, too, whenever I want. I'd certainly want to present as female at times.

So I guess this makes me a transsexual woman with a male public persona, or a transsexual transsexual.

Realistically, my wife and kids would strongly object to this, so it's not feasible. But someday, perhaps...

The important thing would be that I'd be physically female, regardless of my clothes and outward presentation. This idea is highly appealing to me, because it strikes me as much more achievable than transitioning and presenting as female all the time.

Why isn't this option more widely available and accepted? Don't force me to fit into your neat little box!

Getting My Fill

By the time I ended my business trip, I had lost all enthusiasm for wearing my nightie overnight. But, since I hadn't brought any of my male pajamas, I had no choice. I was stressing out about having nail polish on my toes, and the effort I would need to remove it in the morning. I was experiencing a girlie hangover.

I found myself hideous in my girl stuff. I couldn't stand the sight of myself. I'm so hairy and pudgy in all the wrong places that I would recoil at the touch of my own body. It wasn't so much a dysphoria as a realization that my body in women's clothes is grotesque. I'm fine with being masculine, and the feminine clothes only made me feel ridiculous and gross.

Of course that didn't cure me of my fetish. One thing that kept nagging at me was a latent desire to wear a bathing suit, which I neglected to bring on my trip. Within a couple of days of arriving home, I put on a one-piece and made myself feel better. Ever since, I've been on a back-to-basics kick centered on swimwear. This culminated a couple of days ago in wearing my most special bikini, and I've been dying for more ever since.

So what the hell happened?

I think this confirms the sad fact that I don't have gender dysphoria. I only wish! I'm perfectly at ease as a man, and if anything I'm uncomfortable about presenting as a woman. I have a long way to go to be even remotely passable as a woman. I haven't even actually ever really tried. All I ever do is fantasize about it, and wank about it, and indulge in a bit of crossdressing. I think if I ever did try to transition, I would have an incredibly difficult time of it.

I've been getting heavily excited about transition before-and-after photos. I'm so envious of the people who have done it, and it fuels my fantasies. I let myself daydream about becoming a woman. I know that people who do actually have gender dysphoria have to live with an incredibly difficult burden. It's horribly shallow of me to wish I suffered from their affliction. It would give me a good reason for developing my fetish, and a goal to aim for. Instead, I have these delightful fantasies whose fulfillment would most likely make me deeply unhappy, and ironically grant me the gender dysphoria I currently and so callously envy, only in the wrong direction.

The Essence of the Feminization Fantasy

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

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

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

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

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

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

Power in the Battle of the Sexes

Power: for a man, it's physical strength.  For a woman, it's beauty, or rather femininity itself.

Thinking about how a woman's power is sly and naughty, while a man's is almost an entitlement, deserved.  A man exercising his power is blunt and obvious, as are his objectives; a woman exercising her power is perhaps obvious, but certain subtle, and her objectives are inscrutable.

The crux of it is that a man's power over a woman depends on her power over him: he would not even think to subdue her if not for the fact that she has already seduced him.

This strikes me as incredibly important.

Fiction: The Truth

The TRUTH about crossdressing

Everybody knows that it's not cool for boys to wear women's clothes.  We learn this at a very early age.  When we are children, we don't understand gender at all, why or how boys and girls differ.  We learn that there is no mixing of the two, and we segregate ourselves by gender.  Boys play with boys, and girls play with girls.  Those who do otherwise are mistrusted.  They are automatically questionable.  And we're all perfectly happy with this: boys don't want to be girls, and girls don't want to be boys.  This is when we establish our sexual identity.

Now, when all of this is firmly engrained in our psyches, we come to accept some fundamental truths.  Primarily, boys are forbidden from doing anything that identifies them with women; and most importantly, boys do not under any circumstances wear girls' clothes.  We do permit the opposite, but only because something about femininity makes it unquestionable. 

This simple truth proves that femininity is dominant.  Masculinity, in spite of its emphasis on strength, size, and power, is hopelessly subordinate to its opposite.  A woman who wears pants is still a woman; a man who wears a dress is not much of a man.  Yet we pretend that men are dominant. 

The TRUTH is that any man voluntarily wearing any article of women's clothing becomes irreversibly feminized.  The degree to which this occurs is directly proportional to the degree of femininity of the article of clothing, and how close it is to the genitals.  Lingerie has much more effect than, say, pink sweat pants.  Everyone, especially men, innately knows this, but suspects that it isn't true.

Given that no self-respecting man would willingly sacrifice his sexual identity, how do men become transsexuals?

The answer is simple: men worship femininity; it is most natural to want to become that which one desires most.  Therefore, men think that they can experiment with wearing women's clothes, but only at their peril.  Those who dare are inevitably tainted.

I know this, because I have experienced it.

I discovered this by accident, as we all do.  I was in my late teens, and furiously obsessed with girls.  I masturbated all the time, fantasizing about their skin, their shape, their curves, their hair, their underwear.  But I was shy, and no girl would want to talk to me.  I contented myself with watching them from a distance, masturbating whenever I had a moment of privacy. 

I worked at a public swimming pool during the summer, specifically so I could ogle the girls in their fantastic tight form-fitting swimsuits.  It would have been unbearable if it weren't so fascinating.  Every now and then, some absent-minded hottie would forget her swimsuit in a locker, and we'd hold it in the lost and found until she returned to claim it.  Most of the time, they returned almost immediately, but every now and then something would remain forever.

I was so obsessed with femininity, and so curious about it, that I impulsively stole a one-piece swimsuit that had been in the lost and found box for the entire summer.  I was drawn to it because I remembered the girl who had worn it, and I couldn't get a vivid picture of her glorious body in it out of my mind.  I wanted desperately to touch it, because it had touched her.  For weeks I did not dare, but I found myself deliberately brushing my hands against it whenever anyone came to claim anything else.  Finally, I could no longer resist, and I furtively stuffed it into my bag when nobody was looking.  All I wanted was to feel it in my hands, and worship her body from afar.

This became a key to my masturbation.  I was in possession of something feminine, for the first time in my life, and it was completely at my mercy.  I felt weak in its presence.  It made me sweat and shake with nervousness.  It was like trying to talk with a girl, only it couldn't reject or ignore me.  I could fondle it whenever I wished.  Inevitably, that was very frequent; and every time I did, I also masturbated.

But unfortunately, there was far more to it.  It was so much more than a talisman of womanhood.  I knew that my worship was abnormal.  Why else was I so careful to avoid detection when I claimed it?  I hid it in my bedroom, rather than leave it out in the open.  I had a secret which I did not want to share with anyone.  Why?

I was afraid of the stigma of being a boy who owned a girl's swimsuit.  It had little to do with the fact that I had stolen it: it was more to do with an implicit betrayal of my gender.  Somehow, worshipping women in this way was unacceptable, and I knew it all along.  I should have been talking to girls, trying to seduce them, exploring their bodies in person.  Instead, I was fondling the things that they wear, and pretending that it was a worthwhile substitute.  But it goes even deeper than that.  My fascination with feminine things was evidence of a lack of manhood.  That's the true reason why I concealed my habit.  The guilt and shame I felt when I thought of my hidden treasure only made my desire stronger.

At first I had planned to only borrow it.  But soon after I took it home and jerked off with one hand as I fondled it with the other, I had already gotten it dirty with my effluvium.  I could never return it in that state, so I happily decided to keep it.  No-one would notice that it was missing, I rationalized.  I could do as I pleased with it, so long as no-one ever discovered my secret.  Having already defiled it, I succumbed to the fantasy I had been masturbating to: feeling that soft material, and what belongs within it, against my insatiable cock.  I wrapped my penis in it and rubbed myself very quickly to the most fantastic orgasm I had ever felt as I imagined rubbing against Her body, encased in this glorious piece of stretchy cloth. 

Thus rewarded, I repeated it time and time again, her delicious curves in my mind every time.  I knew that this wasn't even close to the real thing, and it frustrated me.  I was, as I said, well aware of the shamefulness of my actions.  As often as I succumbed to these bouts of self-abuse, I hated myself for being so shy, and for having such an incriminating possession as this.  I had no confidence that I could change my lot, so I continued.  In a way, I knew that if anyone discovered my secret, they would question my manhood.  What could I possibly be doing with a girl's bathing suit?  Worse, I found myself fantasizing about touching other articles of girls' clothes with my dick.  I desperately wanted to touch lace and silk and fishnet and leather.  I longed to compare the sensation of these things on my penis. 

Somehow, a seed began to grow in my head.  The swimsuit, hidden underneath my dresser, taunted me, questioned my manhood.  My awareness of it, combined with my utter lack of success with girls, constantly reminded me of how gay it was that I owned a girl's swimsuit.  Unfortunately, this only made me desire it more: it was my secret, and it gave me such pleasure, that I didn't even care if I were gay, as long as I had my swimsuit.  It's not like I wore it or anything.  All I did was rub my penis against it.

I began to worry as I rubbed it against myself that I was rubbing away my manhood every time my penis made contact with women's clothes.  The pleasure trumped any worry, and even fed off of it.  I began to stretch it over my crotch, in an attempt to get maximum coverage over my private parts.  It occurred to me then that this must be what it feels like to wear it.  The thought struck me as terribly dangerous, and I came all over myself, my bedsheets, and my girlie swimsuit.

I could no longer rationalize having it in my possession.  It was terrifyingly gay of me to own such a thing, and I knew it.  I kept thinking to myself that I might as well be wearing it.  The thought possessed me.  I was now fatally curious.  I tried to fight the impulse, for days.  Somehow, I became desperate to feel the swimsuit stretched not only over my crotch, but over my entire body. 

I knew what I would be risking.  As a child, I would have thought that it would immediately turn me into a girl, the moment I put it on.  That deep-seated certainty led me to be careful.  I balked several times, and settled for mere rubbing.  I reasoned that by inverting it, at least I would still be touching the outside, which I would be doing anyway if I were humping a girl.  I also thought that by keeping on my own underwear, I would be protecting myself from any adverse affects of wearing it.  At least I would still feel the spandex on my torso.

When I slid it on, inverted, over my gitch, I had to stop before I could get the shoulder straps in place.  I was so shocked by the softness and tightness of it on my body that I knew that I had already given up any pretense at manhood.  Even without the shoulder straps, I was already wearing a woman's swimsuit!  I could no longer pretend that my secret was an innocent stage of boyhood, or showing curiosity in feminine things -- a normal impulse for a man who is interested in women.  No, I was now guilty of performing acts of femininity.  I had already gone too far.  My hands shook as I pulled it off again, without having so much as touched myself.

I nearly wept with shame.  Simultaneously, I shook with anticipation.  An intense feeling of warmth and slitheriness came over me.  I had an intense desire to move my hips in a feminine way.  I had worn a girl's bathing suit!  I was a transvestite!  There was no turning back!  I might as well go ahead now anyway.  I picked it up again, and de-inverted it.  I slid off my gitch, and pulled it onto my naked body.  My hips gyrated as it stretched over my crotch.  I did not hesitate to put my arms through the shoulder straps and pull it all into place.

Immediately, my mind was flooded with images of beautiful girls, including the previous owner of my swimsuit.  I was like them, now!  If the myths of my childhood were true, I would become female within a few minutes.  The idea filled me with such unfathomable horniness that I nearly came.  I felt the spandex on my waist, and the elastic of the leg holes, so much higher than anything I had ever imagined.  Nobody would ever have to know about my secret!  I wear girls' swimwear!  And I absolutely LOVE it!

I didn't even want to touch my penis, because I knew that I would come almost immediately, and end this phenomenal pleasure.  My mind wandered to fantasies of wearing a bikini, or even lingerie.  How gay would that be?  How unbelievably sexy would that be?  I wanted my swimsuit to be even more feminine than it already was.  Now that I knew what femininity was like, I didn't much care for my manhood anymore.  I was now a certifiable transvestite sissy, and there was nothing that I could -- or would even want to -- do about it.

As I frolicked in my girlie swimsuit, and wished most intensely to lose my penis altogether in favour of a nice soft unobtrusive pussy, I understood the truth most vividly: what I knew as a child about boys wearing girls' clothes might not be true in a physical sense, but is certainly true psychologically.  I was now a girl in spirit, if not in body, and I would always be tainted with this experience.

Imagine my embarassment when, the very day after my wonderful epiphany, the true owner of my swimsuit returned, asking if anyone had seen her swimsuit, which she last wore two months before at this very swimming pool.  My co-worker (a girl) poked around the box for it, convinced that she had indeed seen it in the lost and found box.  I was mortified.  The girl was even prettier than before.  I was so gay that I had stolen this girl's bathing suit, and worn it.  She looked at me funny when she saw me blush.  Somehow, she knew.

Diary: On Discovering Other Writers

I've read a few more stories on dragscape.  It seems to me that there are a few drastic differences between the stories there and those that I tend to write.  Those stories are very often homosexual, and that's the number one difference, although not always.  But second, and most important, those stories never quite get into the head of the metamorphoser.  That's what fascinates me.

For example, there's that story about the army guy who gets ordered to become a girl, and who just suddenly discovers that he loves it and instantly goes all the way with it.  I much prefer the mental development, the discovery of a hidden, dark, very taboo sexual propensity.  And I love it gradual.  It's the understanding that it's completely wrong, but being completely unable to resist experimenting, and getting even deeper into it.  Just like I did it.

Diary: Wearing Women's Underwear to Pretend to be a Girl

That bikini turned out to be quite the coup d'etat.  I absolutely adore it.  It's one of the most fantastic experiences ever.  But I think it's also partly because of my state of mind.

It's always best when I get myself in the mood by writing things here.  I get so turned on by this exercise.  I get to discover what turns me on the most.  The bikini just happens to be an excellent receptacle for my femininity.  Catalyst would be a better word, I think.  I just love how tight and small it is, and how I don't really have to be careful about staining it.  I just love wearing that pretty bra, too.  It wouldn't be anywhere near as fun without it.

It really turns me on to think that this must be what it feels like to dress like a girl.  I know because I am dressed like a girl.  And I imagine myself turning into a girl.  That's how I create my scenarios: I want to drag the moment out as long as possible.  I want to make myself go through a tantalizingly long ordeal until I can finally graduate to true femininity.  But it's actually getting there, actually becoming a girl that really gets me.  The thought that I'm not a girl, but that I am becoming one by wearing women's underthings.  No, not becoming, but become.  

That's the whole idea, isn't it?  Becoming a girl.  That's why I wear women's clothing: because it makes me think that I'm becoming a girl.  I can imagine it without the actual clothing, too.  It's never as fun, but it's true.  But I think about getting into something feminine when I do it like that.  I imagine myself in little white panties or something, becoming female.  When I actually do it, I don't need to imagine: I can touch, and the experience is that much more fulfilling.  For a long time I dreamed of owning a one-piece bathing suit.  I dreamed that I was in a store or some such place, and that I wanted to steal one, but I could never do it.  I dreamed, in other words, that I was a transvestite who wanted sexual gratification from a woman's swimsuit.  
So here I am now, eagerly anticipating wearing something girlish tonight.  Because I want to feel like a girl.  I want to experience girlhood.

It's very weird: I don't know why I do it.  Is it the underwear that I like, or is it the femininity?  Is it the femininity of the underwear?  There's something about wearing it that makes me go wild.  Something about abandoning manhood.  Now, there's an idea that right now makes me indifferent.  It's when I think of myself as effeminate that I become horny.  

There's a recurring theme in my scenarios about trying women's clothes on first, and then admitting that it's the most intense sexual experience of my life.  Or admitting that I far prefer it to men's clothing.  That's the point where it gets really exciting: admitting that I want to be a girl, and that I'm willing to do whatever it takes to wear women's clothing.  I think that that's the key: I think of myself wearing women's clothing for its own sake.  I don't think of just becoming female.  If so, then the clothes wouldn't matter so much, would they?  But they are absolutely crucial.  I can't imagine myself masturbating about being a naked girl getting fucked.  I do imagine myself as a girl in her underwear.  The thought of becoming a girl intrigues me; the thought of wearing girls' underwear excites me.  

I want to be a girl because that would allow me to wear women's underwear.  

It's always in my fantasies that way.  

It's all about panties and bras.  

I don't know what this means.  I think that maybe I rationalize wanting to become a girl because that's what girls do.  They wear girls' underwear.  I want to do that too.  The easiest way out would be becoming a girl.  But that's not what it's really about: it's about wearing tight little silky panties.  

That's not entirely true, either.  I cringe when I see myself wearing girlish undies.  But I love feeling it.  I love fantasizing about being a girl and getting fucked in the cunt--while wearing her underwear, of course.  Strange.  What is it, then?  Do I want to be a girl, or do I want to wear girls' underwear?

I think I have very little fun when I think of myself solely as a man wearing women's clothes.  I have to think of myself as becoming feminine.  But I know that I don't want to be solely feminine, either.  OK, here's the plan: I will try to imagine myself as a man wearing women's clothes.  Then, I will try to imagine myself as a naked woman.  I'll see what happens then.

Diary: Capitulation

They [stories] pretty much do [only need to end when the hero decides to wear women's clothes only], I must agree.  That's the climax.  It builds and builds until the poor sap decides that he wants to become a girl, totally.  He starts small, and reluctantly, but he slowly abandons his inhibitions, and gives in completely, and joyously.  He totally rejoices when he can intellectually proclaim his femininity.


There are therefore two things that I want to discuss: the intellectual transition (again), and a very powerful fantasy I had about doing girl stuff.

So what does this intellectual recognition of femininity entail?  I suppose it only entails what I experienced myself: discovery of pleasure in femininity and fulfilling that pleasure.  But there's so much more, I think.  It must start with a clean slate.  Or maybe not.  I've been through all this before.  Clearly, one must experience a moment when that pleasure had yet to be experienced, and a moment after the experience.  Mine came at a young age.  In most of the stories I've read, it occurs to the hero only in adulthood.  But there is always a discovery, and a capitulation.

Here's the deal: it's all about the fragility of our socio-sexual roles.  What is masculinity?  What is femininity?  From this point of view, femininity is psychologically linked to women's clothing.  Our society has clearly defined rules for gender differentiation by clothing.  Or at least of feminization.  Only women wear skirts, and lingerie, and brassieres, and bikinis, and high cut silk panties, and lace.  But they also wear pants, and shirts, like men do.  But the most important part is the underwear.  That's where femininity resides.  Bras and panties.  Only girls wear them.  Men wear something different.  So gender identity can be defined simply with clothing.  

Another aspect of society is that it frowns upon effeminate men, moreso than on masculine women.  For a man to wear women's underwear would mean contamination, effemination, emasculation.  A man who wears women's underwear can no longer be a man: only women wear women's underwear.  So by willingly slipping into a pair of silk panties, I renounce my manhood.  It instantly transforms me into a woman.  My identity is bestowed by my underwear, so I am woman when I wear women's underwear.  How ironic that I do it for sexual pleasure, by rubbing my male genitals, and therefore indulging in male sexuality even as I fantasize about acquiring female sexuality.

The discovery of women's underwear means abandoning masculinity.  It's just like in my fantasies, just like in my experience.  It all agrees on that point: it takes only one taste to set the conversion in motion.  I wore those little stockings when I was five years old, and enjoyed the experience; I guiltily pursued the experience through the years, always wanting more and more, to the point where I now own a woman's bathing suit, a pair of panties, pantihose, and a lingerie oufit including a garter belt, fishnet stockings, and a satin teddy.  I have worn just about everything I can think of.  I still plan to become totally female for at least a few days, shaving my body hair off, wearing makeup and clothing like a woman constantly for the whole time.  Notice the gradual capitulation to abject femininity.  My fantasies have always followed the same pattern, as do all the stories I've read: an initial experience surprises the subject with pleasure, which he does not want to admit to, to maintain his masculinity.  Then he slowly succumbs to more and more femininity.  He becomes more and more comfortable with wearing women's clothing, to the point where he ultimately wears only women's clothing, and becomes truly female by taking hormones and undergoing a sex change.  

That's the key: becoming more and more accustomed, until it becomes routine, normal.  Another irony: I wear it for pleasure, yet I fantasize about wearing it as a habit.  That's the high point of my fantasies now: wearing only women's underwear until I die; masturbating in something sexy, and then slipping into a pair of white cotton girlie panties afterwards.  Always wearing something female.  I sometimes look forward to wearing panties after I'm done.  I never do, but I'd like to.  It's all part of the gradual acceptance.  Maybe one day, I'll achieve that, and aspire to something more, and so on until I am female.

The fuel for the fantasy's pleasure is the fear that these simplistic identities are accurate.  I accept that they are accurate when I effeminate myself; but I also assert that they are false because I nonetheless remain masculine.  When I do it, I want to become effeminate, and I always have.  It's always been the main part of it, fantasizing that I can wear women's clothes just like real women do.  It always meant aspiring to femininity, fully cognizant of the possible consequences of losing my manhood.  I always wanted to lose my manhood in those moments to become a woman.  Always, without exception.  I find it so pleasurable that I don't care that I will lose my masculinity; I rejoice that femininity entails always wearing the things that give me such pleasure.  To Hell with manhood if I don't get to wear bikinis and lingerie!

Diary: On Humiliation

Tonight, I explore the aspect of humiliation in wearing women's clothing.

A movie made in 1932 called The Blue Angel involves a very powerful transformation: a proud schoolteacher falls for a burlesque actress, and slowly abandons his dignity.  He eventually becomes a clown, and is forced to perform in front of his home audience.  He is the butt of all the jokes.  The experience destroys him.  He is humiliated to death.  He becomes less than humble.  Once the pride of his town, he becomes the lowest form of life.  The humiliation is just so powerful, so pathetic, that one can't help but feel sympathy for him.

Humiliation plays a different role in transvestism, I think.  It often enters in the story when I slip into some silky panties, and even in the stories I've read on the Internet.  There humiliation virtually defines the experience somehow.  It is closely linked with the moment of discovery and transformation.

So there I am, surrounded by sexy feminine lingerie.  I can't help but strip down and put some on.  Just then, I am discovered, in full effeminacy.  I am humiliated, but discovered.  What can I do?  There is no escaping the shame.

As a matter of fact, I have felt that shame very closely.  I have been discovered.  It sure wasn't fantastic.  It was awful.  But there are worse experiences, I suppose.

To think of the fantasy in three different stories, I recall that all of them had some link with humiliation.  The Kim story exploits it most: Kim is constantly humiliated: when he first appears in a short dress in front of the secretary; when he first appears to her in his lingerie; when she refers to him as "she;" when she snaps his bra.  He is constantly humiliated, but he continues to submit.  The cheesy story about the kid and his stepmother also deals with humiliation.  He is humiliated when the girls discover that he wears women's underwear.  But it turns out pretty good for him, because they turn him into a girl (awwww).  The sorority house story also uses humiliation.  The candidate gets humiliated when he is caught having sniffed the panties, when he is forced to wear a bikini bottom, and to dress like a girl.  He doesn't know how to react.  He enjoys it, but he is afraid of what people will think.

I think that all of these stories must resort to humiliation to get to the point where the transgendered man must face his pleasure and accept it.  I think of my own fantasies: I'm supposed to resist becoming female, being effeminated.  I am forced somehow into wearing panties.  I am ashamed to be seen in women's attire.  But I love it so much that I don't care.

The whole point seems to be that I know full well what my social obligations are as a man.  One of them is to not be feminine, of which the most important aspect is wearing female underwear (why it's an important aspect I can't quite understand just yet, much as I've tried).  I come to actually wear some at some point, and my masculinity comes into question, because I have broken a social rule against wearing women's clothes.  I am humiliated, because my carefully constructed identity has been destroyed by this one act of effeminacy.  I am debased because I have violated one of the most important rules of my identity as a male.  I know it's wrong, and I'm caught doing it.  It's humiliating, because I am caught publicly doing precisely what I assert I should not be doing.  But that's where it becomes interesting: I have to be caught publicly, or else it's no fun.  Now that someone knows, they have to exploit that knowledge, and force me to wholly abandon my masculinity and become wholly female.  And I submit, because I know that I am tainted forever.  I can never be fully masculine, because I have dressed in a girl's panties.  My masculinity, if I should maintain it, would be suspect.

The humiliation becomes the crucial point in the moment of discovery.  I become aware not only of my treason of male identity, but of my pleasure in wearing women's underwear.  Everyone knows what I do; why fight it anymore?  I succumb completely.  

Here's a basic scenario from my fantasies: I am a regular man, who has never even dreamed of wearing women's underwear.  But somehow women take over the world, and I become a slave to a woman or a group of women.  She strips me naked and puts me in her underwear.  I am always in a subservient position to my women in these fantasies.  I am humiliated by wearing her underwear.  She makes me prance around in it, and I feel totally ashamed, uncomfortable.  She never lets me take it off.  She makes me continue to act effeminate, without pause.  She rewards me when my effeminacy pleases her.  At some point, the humiliation gives way to pure pleasure.  I am no longer ashamed of wearing panties and bra; I allow myself to be absorbed in the moment, and just feel girlish for a while.  And I love it.  I begin to understand that I love wearing women's clothing.  And I become a complete girl.

In another scenario, I am exposed to some sort of lingerie, and the humiliation comes when I beg to wear it again.  I beg to become female.  Or else the humiliation comes in simply admitting that I love to wear women's undergarments, by secretly sneaking into a closet or lingerie store and trying things on.  The humiliation comes in the consciousness that I can't stop myself from wanting to be feminine.  That's when the fun begins.
I have come to realize in reading those TG FAQs that I simply have a severe panty fetish.  I have sexual thrill when I come into contact with women's underwear, because it defines femininity.  But what remains unclear is why I would want to make myself feminine, too.  Once, in the fantasy, I am humiliated and I begin to admit that I love to wear women's clothes, I start to imagine wearing all sorts of feminine attire.  I start to imagine doing all sorts of feminine things.  I feel most amazing when I imagine that in my fantasy, as I masturbate in lingerie, when I remove it I must put on some panties and go to sleep.  The high points of my fantasies come when I think about becoming a full-time girlie.  I am so absorbed in my new discovery of femininity that I want to acheive it totally by wearing only women's underwear, forever.  The Kim story interests me because Kim has to wear his lingerie constantly, and become a girl.  He is lucky, and I envy him.  I wish I had his wardrobe full of women's clothing.  I wish I could shave my body and lounge around in lingerie all the time, and have girls snap my bra to remind me that I am not a real girl, but a wanna-be.  It reminds me of the horrible incongruity, the barbarity of my own body in those dainty little garments, and how I want them to change my body.  Kim becomes female very gradually, but quite dramatically.  I wish I could parade in front of girls and try to impress them with my girlishness.  It's humiliating at first, but eventually quite gratifying.  It's the moment of shameless abandon, of desiring pure girlishness that makes the experience fun.

Diary: Still Grasping for an Explanation

I might have a partial solution to all of this.  And I've probably said it all before, too.

It's a quirk of my sexuality that I love to wear women's clothes, that I want to become female by doing so.  I have solved the chicken-or-egg dilemma: that first experience was the crucial moment, I think.  Or was it?


That first time wearing women's clothes, for that kindergarten pantomime, allowed me to associate a pleasurable experience with wearing women's clothing.  From that moment on, I knew that wearing girls' panties would be extremely exciting.  I knew that it would stimulate my little pecker.  And that's the whole story.  I associated sex with women's clothes.

Therefore, the idea that wearing women's clothes would bring me sexual pleasure infiltrated my impressionable mind.  Ever since then, I have sought to relive that moment.  The intense pleasure comes from that primal memory.  Oh, how I remember planning in my little brain to have fun with those little stockings at night.  I knew that they would bring me lots of pleasure.  And I'm sure that I would have been right.  So I had formed an impression that wearing any women's underwear would make me feel good sexually.

That explains how I want to be a girl.  Girls wear women's clothing all the time.  Therefore, I will be a girl, wear women's clothing all the time, and feel incredible sexually all the time.  That this was patently forbidden made it all the more appealing.  I knew what I would experience if I dared to wear it, and that made the anticipation that much more intense.

But there is another aspect: I remember masturbating even before that.  I would think of girls capturing me somehow and doing things to me that felt good.  I wonder how much of it is related to transsexualism, though.  Have I fogged my memories with it to make them consistent with my present existence?  I remember thinking that girls would capture me and "girl" me somehow.  What this meant, I wasn't too clear on.  I'm quite certain now that I think of it that it had nothing to do with women's clothing.  They just affected me in a way that I didn't understand or control.  That must be where the capture scenario came from.  


So, was I born with this fetish, or was it bred into my by that one incident when I was 5 years old?  Probably the latter.  Imagine the implications: how many of my classmates have the same secret?  They all wore white pantyhose.  Did they all feel the way that I did?  I'll never know, will I?

Anyway, it's quite obvious now where the thrill comes from.  There is no complex psychological noodling necessary in my mind to excite me when I wear women's clothing.  I tend to intellectualize it far too much.  It really isn't all that complicated.

This is how it works, in a nutshell: I know that wearing women's clothing turns me on, and that I can get the most intense sexual thrills imaginable from it.  Therefore I do it.  And I fantasize about having to do it.  I fantasize about people who do it all the time.  Like Kim from that story.  He gets to wear it all the time, and that's what appeals to me.  It's not that he becomes female eventually, or at least not entirely.  It's that he wears all sorts of girlie stuff, all the time, and that he gets to be quite comfortable in it out of habit.  Part of his appeal is that he remains male throughout.  He never actually loses his dick.  He only suppresses its existence.  I'm not crazy about his crossing over into homosexuality.  That seems somehow distasteful to me.  Even the kid who gets teased by his stepmother has that problem: I don't like when he kisses a boy, enjoys it, and finally decides to become completely female and live forever after as his stepmother's daughter.  I love the idea that his girlfriends turn him into a girl, and that he gets to hang out with them, sleep with them (innocently, that is), and be like them.  He gets to share in their femininity.  The same with Kim.  He gets to share in femininity.  That's the cool part.  They both get to be as feminine as possible, by wearing all sorts of kinky sexy lingerie all the time.  And that's what I want to do, too.


I have fantasized (as these pages will attest) about becoming like them.  I have fantasized about sucking dicks and getting fucked up the ass; and I've also fantasized about getting fucked up the cunt that I eventually acquire.  It's part of becoming female, I suppose, but it's rarely the end of my fantasies.  The end is rather to enjoy being feminine.  And I do that by wearing panties of various kinds.

This raises a question, though: why do I want to be feminine?  Is it simply because that would allow me to wear women's clothing full-time?  It makes some sense, I guess.  I'm almost trembling thinking about wearing lingerie again, and thinking of what I fantasize about.  That idea of discovery, of humiliation, really interests me when I masturbate, when I dream, even.  Wearing women's clothes enters my dreams quite frequently.  I don't think I ever fantasize about fucking.  I do a bit when awake, but it seems to be in a completely different context.  I dream about stealing bathing suits, and about wearing panties and bras, and about playing with A__ in her underwear.  It's the ultimate goal: to wear women's clothing.  It's a bit mundane, because I do it all the time.  But so would fantasizing about sex.  

So there we are.  I wear panties just for fun.

It's just not as exciting to think of it that way.  I enjoy thinking about the psychological implications.  I saw an episode of Frasier tonight and the plot made me think about how serious a part of my sexuality it has become.  In this episode, Frasier struggles with a recurring dream in which he wakes up in a cheap motel in bed with a naked man.  He denies that his sexuality might be suspect.  But then I think of my own sexuality.  I've known about it for a very long time.  I suppressed it for a very long time.  But now it's the main part of my sexuality.  I dream sex dreams about wearing women's clothes, and trying to acquire women's clothes.


I just read a few more stories.  God, I want to wear stuff.  I just love the idea of discovery.  All of a sudden, a man discovers that he actually enjoys wearing women's clothes, and never takes them off again.  Humiliation is fun too.  The man is forced to appear in public in women's underwear, and ends up enjoying it too much to give it up.

So you like it, do you?  YES!  Give me MORE!  I beg you!

Diary: Deep Thoughts About Why

Now, for the third consecutive night, I feel the need to explain myself.  Tonight I have a one-piece swimsuit on under my regular clothes.  I have a little secret.  I'm like a girl in that on the inmost layer, on the layer that really counts, much more than any other, I am a girl.  If I wore a skirt or a dress and pantihose and heels, but retained my own underwear, in a way I would maintain my masculinity.  But no, I wear female inner layers.  Because psychologically, I am a girl inside, and a boy outside.  The only thing that keeps me heterosexual is my love for femininity.

Of course that's bullshit.  I'm not really like that.  It's the fantasy talking.  In reality, I find it kinky to wear women's underwear underneath my regular clothes.  Nobody's the wiser.  And I get my thrill.  What woman wears a bathing suit under her clothes unless she's on her way to the beach?  Psychologically, I'm totally heterosexual.  If anything, my wearing of women's clothes comes from my heterosexual lust for femininity.  I love women and their bodies so much that I want to be one.

But I don't know if that's quite right.  In one of those cheesy stories I read on the internet, the late bloomer discovers women's underwear, and becomes almost a fashion consultant, he knows his panties so well.  It's absurd.  And to top it off, he is gay, and becomes a girl at the end.  I don't wear panties because I think they're pretty, although that has a lot to do with it.  I wear panties because they make me feel sexy.  I wear panties because I associate them with femininity.  I have worn ugly underwear, and gotten a huge thrill out of it because it belongs on a female body.  I used to wear nothing but pantihose.  I was afraid to go any further, but content that they were feminine enough.  Of course, I couldn't help but experiment with more hard-core things, but I started with pantihose.

It's interesting that I did, actually.  It was the first thing I ever wore.  I was too young to get the idea that it was wrong for me to want to wear them, but I did think of them sexually.  I knew since I was three how to masturbate.  And it always had something to do with girls.  When I wore the pantihose in kindergarten for that school pantomime, I knew that boys weren't supposed to wear it.  All of us knew.  But we had no choice.  I liked the feeling of wearing them.  I felt good in them.  So nice and snug and soft.  But I didn't touch them again after that for years.

Then when I began to fantasize about girls, and masturbate more frequently, without female clothing, of course, I began to imagine being dominated.  And eventually about being forced to wear their clothing.  I suppose that I remembered something from my past, and I wanted to repeat it.  I can't recall at all the first time I stole some pantihose.  Not at all.  I must have taken it when no one was looking from the dirty clothes hamper.  I know that I did.  I might not even have dared to wear it right away, but I'm quite sure that I must have wanted to.  I was interested only in pantihose at that point, I think.  It was like a female skin to put on my legs.  And groin.  I can't recall if I stayed away from underwear and bathing suits because they were too intense, or if I didn't really think about them at all.  A difficult situation, to not be certain how it started.  I must have fantasized about bathing suits, because to me they were the sexiest thing on earth.  But I didn't touch them.  I only touched pantihose, and enjoyed it tremendously, even at first when I didn't even remove my own underwear first.

It's starting to come back to me, I think.  I used to roll up my own underwear and make it sexy, like a bikini or lingerie.  So I certainly did think of underwear.  I must have fantasized about it, even before I dared to steal pantyhose.  I must have noticed that pulling up my underwear made me feel good, and that when I thought dirty things, I thought of being dominated and forced into panties.  I must have consciously tried to fashion a sort of female panty out of my own panties.  I used to have a shirt that was too large for me, and I stretched it down past my crotch and pinned it together there, and fantasized about it being a bathing suit.  Yes, this must have been long before I ever wore anything female.  So I fantasized about it all.

So one day, I must have screwed up the courage to steal pantihose.  I must have figured that I could get away with it easily, that it's abundant enough that no one would ever notice if it were missing.  And that's how it started.  Pantihose.  I know for a fact that I yearned for it as much as I now yearn for panties and lingerie.  I know that I sweated as I stole it.  And I know that it was one of the most fantastic experiences of my young life to that point.  I still can't figure out if I stole pantihose because I wanted pantihose, or because I didn't dare go further than that on the first try.  I must have wanted panties.  I probably didn't bother because of my mom's ugly panties.  Or I was intimidated by their being in contact with an unknown quantity: the cunt.  I was afraid of it, and thought it was gross.

So that's how I started.  And I probably constructed this heirarchy of wearing only pantihose first, about a hundred times, before going on to bathing suits or leotards, and so on, because I was afraid of going too far too soon.  I was afraid that it would make me a pervert for women's clothing forever, and to such an incurable degree that I would wear it all the time.  That was a real fear.  The fantasy, of course, insisted that this was a great idea.  But I couldn't let my fantasies get the better of me that early in the game.  It truly worried me that I would become some kind of freak, that my desires would get out of control.  And, of course, they did.  And I couldn't stop myself from experimenting further, and more often, with various articles of women's clothing.
I suppose I was right.  I wonder what would have become of my fetish for women's clothing if I had held fast to my morals and refused to wear any clothing again, because it was just too weird.  Would I ever have shaken it?  I'll never know.  Right now, I'm glad I didn't stick to it.  I'm glad I did become a faggotty transvestite as I feared.  I could only control the degree of my sinning, but not the sinning itself.  I could contain myself from wearing a bathing suit too often, but not from wearing something, or at least fantasizing about it, quite often.

So here I am in a female bathing suit, liking it.  That's what I came here for.  Not to describe my transformation into this effeminate wanna-be, but to describe what the appeal is.  I don't think I've ever quite hit on it.  I always go right to the psychological stuff, and skip the aesthetic appeal.

That's the problem with these accounts.  It's always a matter of succumbing to the temptation, but without ever explaining what is so tempting about it.  So why would I want to wear women's clothing when the women force me to?  Why would I enjoy it?  Why would I suddenly decide that this isn't so bad, it's quite good, when I so strongly resist the idea to begin with?  It's not just a betrayal, it's an aesthetic choice.  That's it!  That's what's wrong with my stories.  I must take it for granted, the appeal.  I always "suddenly realize" and turn the leaf into a raving trannie.  

It's so simple.  The desire to be feminine lies at the centre of it, and I think I might have either overblown that desire, or over-emphasized the fact that I am a man, and that I am not allowed to desire femininity.  I have made too much of the gender dynamic.  I have not made enough of the choice involved.  I should stop delaying this and get right down to it.

It was always shame in those stories when the girls first saw me in my female underwear.  They shouldn't force me, though.  That's where I went wrong.  I should have begged them for their panties as soon as I was in their power.  Sure the discovery is fine, really fine, but I never put my finger on what it is.  It was always the simple discovery that it felt exquisite to wear panties.  But why, at last, why, did I ever wear those panties?  Often, in some stories, I decide to try them on just on a whim, without the slightest clue about their appeal.  The discovery always came with wearing them repeatedly.  But it's much more than that.  It's an innate desire, before ever trying them on.  The story on the internet about the guy disguising himself as a woman, except for the underwear, to live with girls, who suddenly discovers that he likes being a girl when forced by necessity to wear the clothes, misses the point: he should have wanted secretly to do it for a long time.  He should have been hanging on to his jockeys just for show.  It would have occurred to him for sure to try on panties, and go all the way for once, just because that's how it must be if he is ever to discover the pleasure.  The little late bloomer who discovers his stepmother's panties as sexual toys does get the point.  It's all about associating the panties with sex, and then with associating sex with the panties.  No, check that.  It's all about how the boy conceptualizes the appeal of women, or how women appeal to him.  The great story about Kim gradually becoming accustomed to wearing women's underwear is extremely appealing, despite its missing the point.  All it does is fulfill the ultimate fantasy of discovery: that of being forced and gradually understanding the importance of wearing women's clothing.  He never gets a sexual thrill out of wearing lingerie.  He does it because he is told to, and becomes female because he is told to.  He never tries to do it all on his own.


This is the trick: girls are appealing.  Why are they appealing?  They have curves.  They have soft, clear, hairless skin.  They have long, slender limbs.  The curves, however, define their sex appeal.  If a girl has disproportionate tits, or ass, or waist, she is not considered beautiful.  She could be pretty, but if she lacks the proper proportion, she is not sexy.  Think of C__, M__s ex-girlfriend.  She was gorgeous, but never appealed to me sexually, because she had the waist of a man.  She lacked the crucial ratio of hips-to-waist.  I forget what it is.  70%?  I don't know.  Something like that.  Anyway, the facial features count, too, but it's the body that really defines sex appeal.  Demi Moore's tits are too small for her to be very sexy.  And tits don't even appeal to me as much as waist, legs, hips, and ass.

That's the key.  I stared for so long at those lingerie adds I downloaded.  Why?  Because the lingerie accentuates the women's incredibly fine features.  They had absolutely perfect bodies.  The lingerie made their bodies even more perfect.  My attraction to the women was almost entirely determined (relative to other pictures of them) by what they wore in that particular photo.  Good lingerie or swimwear accentuates the very parts that make women sexy: the crotch, by hugging it snugly and overtly, and by making the legs high-cut to make it stick out even more.  The higher the cut, the sexier the underwear.  Decoration also helps, such as lace, and soft silks, and ribbons and flowers that make it seem even more feminine.  The belly, then, is next.  It's right above the crotch, and it's beautifully curved.  A thin band around the waist, a thin, delicate band around the waist is best.  It shows off more skin, and more leg, and more belly.  And it accentuates the waist, either by resting in that gorgeous soft curve, or by resting below it and showing clearly how small the waist is.  Then there's the thighs: look how garter belts girt the wonderful waist, and the garters themselves hang down halfway to the thigh.  The thigh is connected to the crotch.  Then the tits.  The breasts and shoulders are decorated with lace and silk, too, that pushes up the tits, in a delicate band.  I love bras.  I love the tightness of them, the smoothness and silkiness of them.  I love the tightness of them.  Loose lingerie sucks.  It has much less appeal.  The bra that sticks to the sides, and makes it look like silk, is the best.


But I'm still not getting at the heart of the matter.  That's what makes a girl beautiful.  Her body.  But the clothes make her even sexier than if she were naked.  It's a fact, and if it weren't true, they wouldn't need to sell lingerie.  The trick is understanding that the underwear is sexy, too.  The trick is in admiring the female body, and feeling, like Keats suggests, a negative capability, or an ability to get out of one's own thoughts and into those of another.  The trick is in admiring how the lingerie caresses the ideal female body, as it is so often displayed in sexy pictures, movies, drawings, and even in reality, and while musing over the appeal of such a figure, fleshing the figure out in fantasy.  How must it feel to touch that body, how must it feel to touch the panties?  Then the great leap of imagination: How must it feel to be that body, and to be touched?  That's the first leap.  Then the rest is too easy.  That first leap itself is easy enough.  One imagines that touching a female body brings as much pleasure to the body being touched as the body touching, or else there would be no point at all to seduction.  One wants to seduce with pleasure, not anything else.  The fantasy reflects this desire for pleasure in the object of desire as well as one's own.  Men's egos live and die on men's abilities to satisfy women.  That is the key.  When one begins to wonder how the idealized female in lingerie physically feels, then there is nothing stopping rampant transvesticism.


Think about the next connection.  I know she's sexy.  I know she looks sexy.  I wonder what it would feel like for me to touch her.  I wonder what kind of pleasure she would feel if I touched her.  I wonder what she feels like, alone there, anticipating sex.  I wonder how what it feels like in those wicked panties.  That's when the association begins.  At that point, I am horny already.  Then I begin to think about how that beautiful body must feel in its trappings.  I begin to think about how I would love to caress those gentle curves, and put myself in the place of the underwear, which does caress those gentle curves.  I want to be the underwear.  Then I think about the underwear.  I want to feel what she feels.  I'm horny, and I want those curves.  I want them on my body, too.  I want to know how she physically feels, to have that silk around her crotch, that tight panty hugging her waist, that delicate lace all over her.  I want to feel those panties on my body.  I want to be her.  She looks so hot, so sexy, I want to wear what she's wearing.  I want to know what she knows.  I want to know how to please her, and for that I need to know what she knows, and for that I need to be her.  I need to wear what she wears.

I'm not sure if that's quite right.  It doesn't seem to be.  It's not it, either.  I've over-intellectualized it again.  I must get to the bottom of it, not rationalize it.

When I see a picture of a sexy girl in her lingerie or in her swimsuit or bikini, I drool over her body.  I love her body.  I look at her crotch, and her belly, and I want to look like her.  I want that crotch, in my pants.  It's irrational.  It defies rationalization.  I just want to have her body, not in the normal sense, but in the sense that I want to be just like her physically.  I want to feel that skimpy little outfit, the thin, delicate elastic around my waist, the tightness in the slim and soft crotch, the tightness around the breast.  I want to be female, like her.  I make her the object of my desire, but I also make her my idol.  I model myself on her.  I associate sensual pleasure with her body, with what she wears.  I want to feel her pleasure, too.  No, I'm rationalizing again.  I just want to feel her clothes on my body, my female body.  I always imagine that I am female when I wear women's clothes.  I want to feel female.  That's the bottom line.  I consciously want to feel like a girl.  Like a sexy girl.  I have this picture in my mind right now of a girl wearing a bathing suit under her jeans, and taking off her jeans to reveal what she has on underneath.  That's part of the thrill in the fact that I'm in that exact position right now.  I'm fantasizing that I am that girl, that I have the same stuff inside those jeans as she does.  I dream of the jeans hugging her waist, or rather, just dangling against that extreme aesthetic nadir of her soft waist.  I want to be soft and curvaceous, too.  I want my body shaven and hairless, too.  I want tits hanging off my chest, too.  I want all of those things.  And somehow, the clothing allows me to take on those characteristics.  I can become female when I wear that clothing, that under-clothing, because that's how women feel all the time.  They always wear this kind of clothing.  But that's not right, either.  It's simply in the picture of the girl.  I'm having such trouble getting it.

It's not turning me on, either.  I don't feel as horny as when I fantasize about the Kim story.  Not nearly.  It's something else.  It's being able to say, "I'm a girl, now."  That's what I'm saying now, as a matter of fact.  I'm a girl now, and I can prove it.  Look at my underwear.  Look at what I'm wearing.  That makes me a girl, doesn't it?

Eureka!(?)


The clothes make the girl.  That must be it.  It's the clothes.  It's as if a woman's body is shaped by the clothes she wears.  Think about it: how could she ever develop such a fine waist if her underwear didn't cut so high?  Or how could she get such a fine crotch if her panties didn't hug it so delicately, yet so firmly?  The delicateness of her panties makes her body become delicate.  She is hairless because of the lace trim on her bra.  She has breasts because flesh has filled out the cups in her bra.  How could she have developed such long, smooth, slender, curvaceous legs without pantihose to sculpt them?  I want to be a girl, too.  And that's why I wear women's clothing.  I want to develop my body just like girls have.

But I have just returned to the question that remains unanswered.  Why do I want to be a woman in the first place?

It's because I want to wear that underwear.  

But why do I want to wear women's underwear?

It's because I want to be a woman.

It's circular.  But it can't be.  There must be some reason, some association.  I feel that I am close to it, too.  It must have something to do with the ideal female body.  It is, after all, an ideal.  A very powerful one, too.  Why shouldn't I worship it to the point of wanting to emulate it?

But that's not quite it, is it?  Or am I denying it for some reason?  I worship women, therefore I want to be a woman.  I believe at some deep subconscious level that I can become a woman by wearing women's underwear.  I want to become a woman, therefore I wear women's underwear.  But there's something missing.  I'm grasping two horns of a dilemma here.  Which is it?  What comes first?  It must be the desire to be a woman.  I can't come up with an alternative.  Except that it doesn't gel with my desire to wear women's underwear.  

I associate lingerie with women and sex.  Or rather, I make sexual associations between lingerie and women.  But why want to be a woman at all?  Just to wear her underwear?

NO!

It's because, as I explained above, I love the female body.  I want to feel what she feels.  I want to know what it feels like to be a woman.  That's why I want to be a woman.  Because I want to please women, I suppose.  No, that's not quite it.  It's much more selfish than that.  It's all aesthetic: I want to feel like a woman, because she is the ultimate aesthetic experience.  Why shouldn't I want to be as beautiful as she is?  It's not beyond my grasp, is it?  I can't desire to be a sunny meadow in the spring.  But that's not as aesthetically pleasing, is it.  Here it is: I find all sorts of things aesthetically pleasing, and I want to be all of them.  I love cats, and I dream of being a cat.  I love hockey, and dream of being a hockey player.  I love good music, and I dream of expressing the same kind of good music; I want to be that music, I want to feel like that music must feel.  I like the feel of Tool's record art, as well as music.  I want to be inside their art, inside their expression, to re-express it.  Thus, I want to be woman, too.  Only she far outweighs any mere art in her appeal.  Her appeal is all sexual, when I think about it.  It's all related to sex.  I want to experience her, sexually.  The only way I can truly experience this feminine ideal is by becoming feminine myself.  Fucking wouldn't do it.  It would just complete the picture in my mind of the ideal female fulfilling her function.  No, I want to feel what her function is.  I want to get inside her like I would a piece of music, get to know how she works, how each line fits in with the next.  I want to know her from the inside; that's where the pleasure of performing a piece of music comes.  I need to reproduce the experience of the musical piece as best I can.  I need to reproduce the experience of the female as best I can.

Is that it?  Maybe.  It's such a quick leap of ideas.  One second I'm admiring the aesthetic qualities of woman, the next I'm living them.  It makes plenty of sense.  It's a hands-on view of art.  I need to be able to place myself in the work of art to truly experience it.  I need to reproduce it in some way.  I get a kick out of listening to Pearl Jam catch a groove, or to Beethoven's 5th, and I need to re-create that kick on my own terms, as accurately as possible.  Likewise, I see a film, or read a book that really tickles my fancy, and I want to produce something just like it.  I want to copy.  So when I see an idealized woman, in picture or in fantasy, I want to re-produce her on my own terms, too, and that involves becoming her.  That involves re-creating that intense sexual thrill of seeing her, and feeling a rush of testosterone and adrenaline, but nothing more.  I re-create that thrill by imagining myself as her, by wearing her clothes.  I play a female role, and it recalls for me the thrill of seeing her; plus I get the added thrill of the aesthetic pleasure of wearing tight, silky clothes.  Much of the kick I get out of wearing women's clothes comes from the knowledge that it's women's clothes, not just the way they feel on my body.  It just so happens that women's clothes feel fantastic on my body, as well as re-create the aesthetic thrill of watching sexy females in skimpy clothing.  That's why I wear women's clothes, and that's why I want to be a girl: because I want to experience the fullest thrill of seeing a beautiful, scantily clad woman.

I just fondled myself through my bathing suit, and realized that it must be more.  I think I know what it is too.  
I felt a self-consciousness of my masculinity being corrupted by the bathing suit.  And that has nothing at all to do with what I just described.  Or does it?  Perhaps the thrill of knowing that I am immersing myself so much in the aesthetic of girl makes it more intense.  But it should bring me back to earth, no?  Instead, it makes me that much hornier.  The thrill is in purging my masculinity for femininity.  I don't belong in a girl's bathing suit, and the knowledge that I am now in a girl's bathing suit makes me horny.

A possible solution might be that wearing women's clothing becomes an aesthetic experience all its own.  It follows its own logic.  It's playacting, imagining that my fantasy of transformation is coming true.  That must be it: knowing that I am not a girl makes me want to be a girl that much more.  No, that's wrong.  I desperately want to be a girl already.  Wearing the clothing brings me closer to being female.  It's what I described earlier: a betrayal of masculinity.  I know that I shouldn't be doing it, but I don't care.  Forbidden fruit tastes better.


Why can't I get this?  It's baffling.  Let's think about those stories.  Kim turns me on because he's becoming female slowly but surely, gradually, without even knowing it, just by wearing women's clothes and getting used to it.  He becomes female without noticing it.  He wears his wife's clothes and doesn't see anything wrong about it.  Eventually, he becomes a girl, fucking men.  That's extremely arousing, that he wears strictly female underwear, all the time, and that he will never wear anything else again.  He has become female, just by wearing women's clothes, just by force of habit.  It doesn't matter that he doesn't feel a thrill in wearing it.  It suffices that he wears it, and that he's not supposed to, socially speaking.  It's perfect because he gains acceptance as a woman among women.  I love the part where the secretary plays with his bra strap, and makes him self-conscious of his clothing.  He knows he's not socially determined to wear it, but he wears it anyway.  He is conscious of his femininity.  He has these moments of noticing, and they're the best parts.  He knows that he's becoming female, but he does nothing to stop it.  That's the great part of it.  The one about the late bloomer works when the kid starts hanging with the girls, and they get to make him into a girl.  It doesn't matter to me all that much when he sees his stepmom undressing, and hardly matters when he tries things on.  He goes too far, for some reason.  He gets a thrill out of wearing women's clothes, but he must be too true to life in some way.  He does knowingly become female, but it's not nearly as sexy.  It's not insidious enough, somehow.  What's wrong with it?  I don't know at all.  I suppose it's that he is not forced into subtle discovery or habit like Kim is.  I give up.  For now. . .

Diary: Choice, Discovery, and the Fragility of Manhood

I thought this was pretty good before.  I guess I'm just not in the mood right now.  Or maybe I need to elaborate on something here.

It's a matter of discovery and of choice.  It's a matter of breaking down the barriers between the genders.  It's a matter of accepting a difficult but undeniable truth.  How can any man not feel the appeal of wearing women's underwear?  It's just so easy.  All you have to do is slip it on, and then you'll understand that your fears, which you had always suspected might be unfounded, are based in a social need to rigidly define the male gender.  But if you put on panties and a bra, you will understand that your masculinity is indeed in doubt.  You will understand that your masculinity is very fragile, and that you have just foolishly damaged it by foolishly asserting it.  I'm a big strong brave man.  I'm comfortable in my sexuality.  Nothing can shake my manhood.  Here, I'll prove it to you: I'll wear these frilly little panties.  Watch as they disintegrate at the merest contact with my humungous balls.  But it's a different story.  They sustain whatever your balls can dish out.  It's your balls that wither, as you realize subconsciously that the panties fit much better than your own underwear.  The panties caress your genitals gently, with soft but powerful silks.  Even your big powerful penis looks pretty and dainty adorned with lace and ribbons and bows and flowers.  And the panties are nice and snug.  It's at that moment that you realize that you've made a mistake; or maybe you don't realize it.  Maybe you store that information away subconsciously, so that it gnaws at your mind until you realize that you need more.  Until you realize that you want to feel those snug and soft little panties on your big manly balls again.  It's a big test of your testes, you think; I'm so comfortable in my sexuality that I can comfortably wear panties, and not worry at all about their effect on me.  I'll wear them whenever I feel like it, because I'm man enough to dress like a woman.  You find yourself doing it all the time now.  You feel much more comfortable in women's panties.  You feel sexy, but not in the same way as you were once used to.  You feel delicate, and soft, and very, very hot.  You feel like you can conquer the world, but not with muscle or bravado; you feel that you can shake your sexy little butt in any man's face, and get him to lick your feet.  You feel like looking at yourself, and you want to see a girl in your place.  You feel feminine, and you like it.  You don't know what it is, but you definitely like it.  And you start rubbing your prick up and down, and come all over yourself and all over your girlish panties.  Then you feel shame.  Gone is your feeling of bravado, of confidence.  Now you feel like a dirty dishrag.  Now you feel like you've done something wrong.  You peel off the panties with guilt.  You can't understand what came over you.  You can't understand why you just lost control.  You hide the evidence.  You vow never to touch panties again.  You deny to yourself that they have affected your sexuality.  It was an isolated incident of perversion, and you'll never let it happen to you again.

Then later, when you've recharged, maybe days later, maybe weeks, maybe months, maybe years, you remember wearing women's underwear.  And you become aroused.  And you deny it to yourself.  And every mention of women's underwear, any sighting, any contact you make with women's underwear makes you sweat and shake and desire.  You don't want what's in the panties anymore.  You do want it, but not as much as you want the panties themselves.  You want to be in the panties yourself, literally.  And you succumb.  You find some somehow.  You steal them.  You "borrow" them from your wife, your mother, your girlfriend, your sister.  And you enjoy being inside them.  You enjoy that feeling of abject femininity.  And you recognize it as such.  You know that you want to be like a girl when you wear those panties.  You no longer have any desire to prove your manhood by wearing panties.  You consciously assert your womanhood instead.  You repeat the process of pleasure, climax, and shame, and denial, and abstinence for a long, long time.  You continually return to it, compulsively.  Like a drug addict.  Your scenarios always involve the voluntary surrender of your masculinity.  Of course, your scenarios always involve force; you would never agree to surrender your masculinity without the threat of force, or without being under some irresistible influence, or without being out of your mind.  But the pleasure comes from your willingness to succumb to femininity.  You might resist at first, both in your fantasies and in real life, but you eventually give in, and feel the most incredible sexual thrills of your entire life.  Think about how your fantasies mirror your real life: in reality, you resist at all costs returning to your secret passion.  You don't want to think about it.  You don't want to do it anymore.  It's too dirty, it's too strange, it's too perverted.  A million things tell you not to do it.  It's morally wrong, somehow.  It's not right.  You're not a woman, you're a man, and you should dress accordingly; and if you don't dress accordingly, you shouldn't enjoy it.  But an irrisistible force keeps controlling your actions.  You resist as much as you can the temptation to sneak into a woman's dresser and pick a choice piece of lingerie.  Your whole body shakes as you tiptoe over to it.  Your hands shake and your brow sweats as you rummage through that Edenic drawer where the panties are, and select your treat.  Those, you imagine, must be the effects of your will trying to fight back against an external force controlling your mind.  But you sneak out of there, panties stuffed discreetly into your pants, and you stash them in your room, for later.  Or you go to the bathroom, and immediately try them on.  And keep them on until it's time to pleasure yourself.  And then you allow yourself the pleasure.  Then you finish, feel shame, and plan the safe return of the panties to their place of origin, vowing to never succumb again.  Your fantasies have the same theme of resistance and inevitable surrender into guilty bliss.  You imagine being captured by beautiful, scantily clad women, who have you under their power.  They admire your masculinity.  You are the paragon of maleness.  But they will not allow you to remain so.  They want to destroy masculinity, which you represent.  They force you or trick you into slipping on their lingerie and masturbating in front of them.  You know that showing pleasure for this would be the ultimate in shame, but at the same time the ultimate in pleasure.  You try as hard as you can to humble the Amazon women.  But you are seduced.  You can't help but feel the pleasure, and you know what you are surrendering.  The surrender is the best part.  You acknowledge that they are your masters when you allow yourself to feel the pleasure.  And do you ever feel the pleasure.  You collapse at their feet, licking them clean because of the sheer intensity of the experience.  You are enslaved to them, and you willingly discard any male clothing you might have in favour of the lingerie they give you.  You succumb fully, completely.  You know that you can never turn back, that your masculinity is gone forever.  And you celebrate.  Without shame, and without guilt, you celebrate your rejection of masculinity in favour of femininity.  But you suddenly climax, and your masculinity returns, just as it shrinks.  You are ashamed of your betrayal of your sexuality.  Your fantasy is over.  But look at the affinities: you feel an irresistible force that makes you act against your will; you are placed in a position where you have an opportunity to betray your allies, all the men in the world, for the pleasure of femininity; you betray them, and become forever female, and you would repeat that choice every single time.  There are three levels here: fantasy, reality, and subconscious.  In fantasy, you are imagining it in the terms described above: you are forced into a choice to become female, at the cost of all manhood, and choose femininity.  In reality, your sexual desires force you to make a choice between manhood and femininity, represented by the panties, the inmost layer of women's clothing and identity (only girls wear things like that); you decide to betray male social mores and distinctions of gender, which tell you that only girls wear that, and say, so be it, I will be a girl then.  Subconsciously, you are forced to give in to your sexual needs, as represented by females, as represented by, of all things, their underwear; you surrender your sexual identity in order to fulfill your sexual needs.  In each scenario, you take great relish in becoming feminine, until it's all over and you realize what you've done.  In the fantasy, you've betrayed all men to your fate, because they all looked up to you; your fall into girlhood spells the fall of manhood forever, and all men will now aspire to womanhood like you; you have tainted all manhood, even destroyed it.  In reality, you have betrayed your sexuality: no one will respect you if he or she knows that you like to dress like a girl; you have thus betrayed your identity, and your own received ideal about masculinity; you have tainted your own manhood, even destroyed it.  In the subconscious, you have betrayed decorum, or social good, for your own selfish needs; you have tainted your image in society, even destroyed it.  But there eventually comes a turning point, when all of this changes slightly, for better or for worse I cannot say.  Now I assert my betrayal proudly.  How has this happened?  It's all in the subconscious.  Years and years of constant effeminizing has perhaps determined the course of my identity; or perhaps my initial fears are so justified that I should be frightened.  But instead, I am impishly overjoyed that my initial fears were so justified.  The fantasies are pretty much the same.  The reality and the subconscious are different.  Still, I fantasize of being captured by amazon women, who force me to wear their clothes; but now I succumb immediately, and become one of them sooner.  I suppose I did even then, though.  The fantasies are exactly the same.  I fail the test of loyalty.  But there is one slight difference: I feel no more loyalty.  I have not betrayed all men; I have saved them from manhood.  I have enlightened them.  I have shown them that femininity is stronger than masculinity, and that they might as well give up now, and understand.  In reality, I secretly keep women's clothes in my closet, which I use at my own discretion.  They are stolen and bought.  They are mine now.  Strictly mine.  I feel no urge to throw them away in disgust as a firm denial of my passion, as I have done foolishly so many times in the past.  Now I guard my femininity fiercely.  In reality, I don't need to steal anymore.  I have what I need.  I don't have any resistance.  I willingly effeminate myself, and feel not a whit of shame afterwards.  Sometimes I feel regret that it could not last any longer.  In reality, I no longer feel ashamed for betraying my sexuality; I feel that I am affirming my sexuality as a wanna-be female.  I think of myself as a girl when I dress up, and sometimes even when I'm not doing it.  There is no more shame to be felt, because I am not betraying anything.  To Hell with masculinity.  I was never really male to begin with.  I was a double agent.  The change comes on the subconscious level of identity: there may once have been a strong need to combat my sexual needs, but now I gladly give them free rein.  They are in control.  Like the girls in the fantasy.  I have completely given myself over to them by wearing their clothes so many times.  My masculinity is not totally gone, but it's almost gone.  I still look like a man, but I want to be a woman.  I have made that first transition into femininity.  The fear, I realize, was justified.  Wearing women's clothing did make me less masculine.  It did make me want to become female.  And that was part of the thrill of it to begin with: testing my masculinity against those fears of losing it.  I have played with fire so much that I have become what I feared I would become.  I resisted coming back to the girl's dresser because I knew that it would make me more female.  And it did.  Look at me.  I wear women's underwear, and I feel no shame about it.  I wear it often.  I feared that returning again and again would only make it worse.  Only be resisting could I ever shake femininity.  But I was never man enough.  The point of no return was that very first time.  That was it.  There was no serious resisting.  So I say to all men: you're right; if you wear women's clothing, even if you don't do it deliberately, you will forever compromise your manhood.  It doesn't matter if no one ever saw you.  You know you did it, and you'll never forget it.  And sooner or later, you'll do it again.  And you'll do again after that.  And then you won't be able to stop, and you'll be wearing it all the time, and you won't be a man anymore at all.  My advice to you is this: sneak into your wife's, or your mother's, or your sister's, or your girlfriend's dresser.  Pick out the prettiest, sexiest panties you can find.  And when you're all alone, and have lots of time to yourself, slip them on.  Oh, you'll hate me for the next ten or fifteen years, until you finally accept that you're a sissy, and that you're proud of it, and you'll want to thank me.  But you won't do it.  You're chicken.  You're not a man if you don't do it, and you're not a man if you do do it.  You can't win.  You'll lose eventually, and you'll like it.  A lot.  

Right now, I'm wondering if there's maybe a third stage to this.  I hope there is sometimes.  It would take another giant shift in identity, which I often think I would love to make.  Right now I'm a closet girl.  I never go all the way, and I can't.  But I would love to.  I would love to shave off all my body hair (purge it entirely, forever) grow breasts, shrink my waist, and dress completely like a woman.  Be a woman for at least a week or so.  Change my wardrobe permanently to female clothing.  The first stage is that of denial.  The second stage is that of acceptance, but to a limit.  The third stage is that of full blown immersion.  The fourth is physical girlhood.  I'm in the second stage.  I could have been close to the third at one time, but I'm not sure.  I would have gone up north, alone, and anonymously, and been a girl for a while, until my body hair grew back.  I would have worn only women's underwear, nightwear, and skirts and blouses and makeup all day.  I would have lived like a girl, and enjoyed it thoroughly day and night for at least a week.  It really appeals to me to dump this existence and become a girl.  But at this stage, it won't happen.  I'm content with a heterosexual relationship and a good diversionary dressup in between sex.  The ultimate would be to have my girlfriend find out and accept, and nurture my femininity.  She would be my tutor.  And I would be her girlfriend and boyfriend at the same time.  But that won't happen.  It happens to some people, but I don't really think I want it to happen.  I'm not ready for that.  I'm content being a secret girl.