Diary: Over-Analysis

It has been several months since my last confession.  I have neglected this record of my passion, although I have made many discoveries (sadly, in only a psychological sense) about it.

I read Richard Slotkin's Regeneration Through Violence in August, and learned how American men strive to destroy the wilderness, because they love it.  There is a deep-seated psychological need to cannibalise your victims: thus, the American destroys the wilderness because  he knows that he must merge with it.  Or something like that.  His greatest fear, and his greatest desire, are contradictorily, to merge with the wilderness: he fears becoming an Indian, and he needs to become an Indian to conquer the wilderness; to conquer the wilderness, he must become part of it.  Does this sound familiar yet?

Slotkin used many examples.  I have one of my own.

Here I am, typically male in that I love women and their exquisite bodies as mythical objects which I must worship from afar.  Because in my youth, sex was so alien to me, I had to idealize the female body somehow.  The real thing is somehow different from the fantasy, in ways that I cannot yet define.  This has become embedded in my psyche as an ideal of femininity.

Clearly, because women always wear a particular type of design of underwear, which accentuates their femininity, I have come to associate these articles of clothing with femininity.  So when I think of the ideal woman, I think of sexy lingerie or swimsuits or whatever.  

Now, because I love women so much (and I do believe that I have iterated this before), I want to become one.  I need to take on the attributes of this ideal which I hold so high.  So I must somehow attempt to assimilate myself into womanhood.  I wear women's clothing, in the cannibalistic hope that wearing their clothes will turn me into one of them.  It's like the primitive hunter who eats the bear's heart to gain his courage.  I don't have to kill, or eat; but I do have to take something of the female.  Indians have been known to wear animal skins, believing that doing so gives them the animal's power.  So here I am, wearing women's "skin" to gain the woman's power.

But does that explain the overpowering urge to wear girls' underwear?  The entire idea of being captured by girls and being forced to become one of them seems to me extremely similar to the notion of the white captive going Indian, much to his and his people's horror.  Look at my fantasies of the past 44 pages, and note how often the captivity myth creeps in there.  It's certainly something to think about.

Meanwhile, I continue to struggle with the fact that I am a flaming transvestite.  When I read little snippets of the previous entry in this femininity diary, my heart jumped with excitement.  I can't help it.  The idea of wearing girls' clothes turns me on so much that I my heart leaps when I just think of it.  It's so much more appealing than sex.  Sadly, in a way, but thankfully in another.  I can't imagine a more passionate, more pure way of acheiving all of my sexual desires than effeminating myself.  It's sad because I'll never make love as passionately as I transsexualize myself, and it's that much more tantalizing for exactly the same reason: I am a freak of nature, because I have warped myself into this by persistently wearing women's clothes.  That means that somehow, in my tantalizingly sick little girlish mind, it's working.  I am becoming more feminine as I wear these things.  I keep pushing myself, too.  I lose a bit of interest, and I force myself sometimes to wear them.  Then it all comes right back, in full force, and I feel an incredible undeniable desire to womanize.  Like now, I had only the vaguest notion of horniness about this, when I forced myself, to kill time, to put on my lingerie outfit and read and write in this little journal.  Now I'm totally enthralled again.  And I love it.  I am again reminded of the need to acquire more of a wardrobe.  I will do it, eventually.  I swear it.  A bikini first.  Then maybe some new panties, white this time, and possibly my own bra.  Then I'll need black fishnets and a really nice teddy.  And there'll be more.  I know it.  And I'm glad.

Another thing I thought about is my captivity narrative's possibilities.  Imagine every possible scenario of a man like myself (let's just say myself, so that I can savour every moment of this) being captured and faced with wearing women's clothing.  There are several possibilities underlying the entire theme to begin with, which deal with my previous experiences as a transvestite.  I could either 

1. have never even imagined wearing girls' clothes, much less done it.
2. have never worn women's clothes, but have guiltily and secretly fantasized about it on occasion.
3. have guiltily worn women's clothes on a bet, or as a quick little experiment, but never gone through with the full experience of wearing it for complete sexual gratification
4. have guiltily worn women's clothing secretly and ashamedly, for sexual gratification
5. have shamelessly worn girls' clothes for sexual fun in secret.
6. be a totally unashamed transvestite.

The least fun of these to imagine, in a way, is 6).  They capture me, and they don't have to strip me down.  I'm already wearing panties.  They let me join immediately, happy but surprised to see such a pro in action already.

Then there's the rest, all of which are pretty interesting.

The scenario, by the way is this: I am captured, and stripped down.  A girl cajoles me about putting on her panties.

In all five cases, I can react in three ways:

1. I furiously refuse all attempts to get me to put them on, cajoling included.
2. I at first refuse, but after some cajoling agree to put them on
3. I put them on right away, no questions asked.

Behind each possibility lies the possible motive for such an action, based on the initial possibilities about my previous experience.  In all cases, I must end up in the panties.  

Imagine the first case: I have never experienced girls' clothes before, or even imagined wearing any before, and suddenly, I am exposed to the possibility.  I consider it absurd, and react in any of the three ways mentioned above.  First, I could humour her, and step into them innocently, because I'm not afraid.  Otherwise, I consider it ridiculous, and outright refuse to even humour her.  She laughs at me, and asks me if I feel so insecure as a man that I wouldn't be caught dead in women's underwear.  I can either give in at this point and put them on to prove to her that I am not afraid of compromising my masculinity.  Or I can continue to refuse, for ever.  Then she forces me to wear them somehow.

Just imagine the result of this: for 1-3, the experience would be an instant shock.  I slip into the panties unknowingly, and instantly surprise myself by popping the most insane boner ever.  I discover the secret of femininity, and I can react either with self-loathing or with blind abandon.  For 1-1, I am forced into the panties, and to my shame, instantly show my pleasure.  She shows me that I am compromising my masculinity, and I can't do anything about it, because I'm being forced.  I think I must of necessity become self-loathing in this case.  For 1-2, I discover, for the first time, the wonder of girlishness, and am probably ashamed at showing such pleasure.  A guilty but willing newcomer to transsexuality.

Now, in the second case, the results must be more positive.  2-1 must grudgingly admit my secret but never acted upon fantasy, and understand its fantastic appeal.  2-2 would be an intense discovery, of the type that I discover unexpectedly what I had been missing by cowardishly refusing to act out my fantasy.  2-3 would be an impulsive experiment, and monumental surprise and acceptance of a new way of dressing, shocked by failing a test of masculinity

3 would be somewhat similar, but a different degree of positivity again.  3-1 would be a stage of self-denial before finally accepting with violent shame that I have always wanted to do this, and have come close to trying, but never acted it out to the end.  3-2 would be a grudging self-denial again, trying to prove to myself that I can wear this without embarrassing myself: I would try gallantly to prove my manhood, not only to myself, but to the girl pushing her panties on me, and fail most ignominously.  And I would grudgingly accept my failure.  3-3 would be an impulsive grasp at an opportunity to discover femininity.  Or maybe I exaggerate a bit.  Certainly, there would be an element of defiance, much as in 3-2.

4 would be close to my own experience. 4-1  Refusing would be a prolongation of the agony of self-denial.  The girl would certainly discover my secret, and notice that I look much too comfortable in panties to have never enjoyed them before.  She would get me to confess, and surrender to her wardrobe.  I would eventually be the happier for it.  4-2 would be much like 3-2, a test of my resolve, but I would be much more certain to lose, and give in to my guilty pleasures, and soon accept my lot.  4-3 would be a complete surrender to girlishness, such as I experienced when I decided to take Mom's flowery purplish swimsuit and to stop denying my femininity.  It would be a wholesale acceptance of girlishness, a joyous leap into the freedom of silks and lace.

5 would be interesting.  5-1 would be a curious option, considering the stage of femininity.  What would I do?  What would make me refuse?  A stubborn denial, not to the self, but to the world, that I have a strong craving for the feminine.  Once forced, I would instantly give in, and gladly.  5-2 would be more like a game.  I would pretend to be masculine, or to care about my masculinity, and then snap them on gleefully and become girlish on the spot.  5-3, of course, would be a complete acceptance of my coming out.  A graceful coming out of the closet.

The options that appeal to me most right now are the ones where I either discover for the first time the intense pleasures involved in dressing up in girls' undies, and my subsequent discovery of a new universe and a new sexual identity, or my giving in to secret desires at last, and feeling an incredible relief.  At any rate, I just love to think of the psychological implications of any of these choices.  I am going to go fantasize about them all now.  

Was it last time that I swore to sleep in lingerie or something for an entire night?  Well, it seems like a long time.  I might not even have sworn it here.  At any rate, I tried to do it, and it was impossible.  I couldn't sleep, because I was perpetually horny.  My penis hurt from overuse.  I spewed at least twice, but couldn't even handle another boner after that.  I just couldn't do it anymore.  So I bailed.  I'll try it again someday with something more tame.

I don't think I'll have anything new to report next time, but I know it'll be fun again.  It always is when I surrender my masculinity.

Diary: Angels and Insects

I have recently read the first part of A.S. Byatt's Angels and Insects.  It struck me as a powerful insight into emerging sexuality, and emerging perversions: Eugenia and Edgar's secret but lustful incest strikes me as exactly the kind of thing that I have experienced in secretly revelling in women's undergarments.  Eugenia tries hopelessly to justify herself, to explain her horrid perversion:

'I know it was bad,' said Eugenia.  'I know it was bad, but you must understand that it didn't feel bad--it grew little by little, out of perfectly innocent, natural, playful things--which no one thought wrong--I have never been able to speak to any other living soul of it, you must forgive me for speaking to you--I can see I have made you angry, though I tried to make you love me--if I ould have spoken to anyone, I might have been brought to see how wrong it was.  But--he thought it wasn't--he said--people like making rules and others like breaking them--he made me believe it was all perfectly natural and so it was, it was natural, noting in us rose up and said--it was-unnatural.' (158)

Eugenia is not upset about the incest, but about her being discovered.  She feels guilty for having been caught, not for having fucked her own half-brother, and that makes her feel even more guilty and embarrassed.  I am sure that at the same time it turns her on even more to her perversion.
Another passage which catches my attention is the moment of William's discovery of the incest.  It reminds me of the time when my mother found my stash of clothing, and discovered my passion.

'Neither borther nor sister could say, 'It is not what you think.'  Neither tried.

William looked at his wife.  She was panting.  It was no doubt from fear, but it resembled closely enough the pants of pleasure, which he knew.

'You too.  Dress yourself.  Cover--cover up.'

Eugenia turned her head on her pillows towards him.  Her lips were parted.  Her limp legs were still parted.  She lifted a tremulous hand and tried to touch his sleeve.  William sprang away as though he had been stung.  He repeated, with an edge in his voice, 'Dress yourself.'

She rolled herself very slowly out of the bed, and gathered up her clothes.  They were cast down here and there in the room. . . .

. . . He was looking back, with difficulty.  'I don't want you to think you must lie to me, Eugenia.  This--this has been going on all the time, hasn't it?  All the time I've been here?'

He could see the lies pass over her face, like clouds over the moon.  Then she shuddered, and nodded.  'Yes.'

'How long?' said William.

'Since I was very little.  Very little, yes.  It began as a game.  You cannot possibly understand.'

'No.  I cannot.'

'At first it seemed--nothing to do with the rest of my life.  It was just something--secret--that was you know--like other things you must not do, and do.  Like touching yourself, in the dark.  You don't understand.'

'No.  I don't.'

'And then--and then--when I was going to marry Captain Hunt--he saw--he saw--oh, not so much as you have seen--but enough to gress.  And it preyed on his mind.  It preyed on his mind.  I swore then, I would stop it--I did stop it--I wanted to be married, and good, and--like other people-- and I--I did persuade him--he--was mistaken in me.  It was so hard, for he would not say what he feared--he could not speak it out loud--and that was when I saw--how very terrible--it was--I was.

'Only--we could not stop.  I do not think--he--' she chokedon Edgar's name, 'meant even to stop--he--he is--strong--and of course Captain Hunt--someone led him to see--he saw--not much--but enough. . .

William watched her weep.

'But even after that--you went on.'

'Who else could I turn to?'

The parrallels are striking, at least in the emotional content.  What could I say when Mom discovered my secret, and I was caught red-handed with bathing suits, pantihose, and leotards?  How resigned I was to having been discovered, and completely aware that there was no possible excuse.  I had the same reaction as Eugenia.  I felt that I had to stop, I had to change my ways, because they were abnormal.  But I could not.  I always pined for more.  I think I was so glad to have managed to save my prized bathing suit that I wore it that very night, as a final fling before reforming.  Essentially, I hated myself, much as Eugenia did, and was just as guilty about my midnight trysts, but simply could not stop.  

I, however, have come to terms with my perversion.  I foster it, because I know that I can never ever get rid of it.  Even while I have regular sexual encounters, I still need (albeit less frequently) to wear women's underwear.  There is nothing I can do about it.  I have tried for many years.  The time will come soon when I will either not be able to hide it, or have to abandon my stash.  Sad, but inevitable.  I will have to steal my wife's lingerie, and when I buy her some, I'll always have at the front of my mind a thought of how I would like to wear what I'm buying her.  

Another thought which crept into my mind was that religion plays an important role in sexual development.  I remember fearing that come Judgment Day, God would look upon my transvesticism and punish me.  For when I was young, and believed in an all-seeing God, I resigned myself to the fact that when I died, God would have a record of all of my transgressions into femininity, and would judge me harshly.  What would He say, I wondered?  How would He punish me?  Simply exposing my sins to the entire heavenly host would be so embarrassing, so shameful, that I would die of humiliation, simply by the universe's knowing that I wear girls' clothes in secret, and do sexual things with them.  

I also imagined that it would be most embarrassing if I were kidnapped by aliens, along with a female specimen, and the captured girl would know what I do in private, and the aliens would know, and their data would be skewed by my perversion.

Also, I always imagined (perhaps that should be in the present tense) while masturbating (what was the word I coined?  Let me think. . . oh, yes, 'womanized')-- I always imagine while womanizing that I was being encouraged, either out of spite for my manhood, or by earnest desire to swell the ranks of women-- I was encouraged by scantily clad young sexpots who teach me how to be feminine, and that I am at first captured and forced to comply, but that they soon realize that I don't have to be forced.  I've been through this before, many times.  I am such as I am, and captured by women, who knock me unconscious, and I wake up either naked or already in their clothes, or in my own clothes-- and I am given no choice but to put on something unmistakably feminine, and made to pop a boner, much to my shame.  Slowly, as they force me to masturbate most uninhibitedly from the fantastic pleasure which femininity affords me, I desire to wear their clothing all the time, and my wish becomes granted--I am given my own wardrobe of girls' clothes, and wear it happily forever after.

There are shades of difference in there, though.  Sometimes, it's true, I imagine that they begin the experiment as a joke, as I am masturbating, and I can't help revealing my secret by becoming extraordinarily aroused, and they continue the joke, and treat me as an oddity, and feed my desire with more and more clothing.  They realize that I am a transvestite at heart, and I am at first ashamed to be so exposed, and perhaps resist being further embarrassed, but soon become a willing participant in their joke on me.  At other times, I imagine that I have never worn any women's clothing at all, and that the initial experience, forced as I am into it, reveals to me the supreme pleasure of womanizing.  As I become aware of the clothing I wear, I become so aroused that I simply can't control my writhing in absolute blind pleasure, even in front of thousands of girls.  I beg for mercy, but they cruelly laugh as they watch me soil myself in femininity.  I am so taken by the experience that I beg for more, and they agree to gradually allow me to become one of them.

Often, there is a military, or at least adversarial theme to my fantasies.  Women and men are at war for supremacy, and by some kind of seductive tricks, the women are winning overwhelmingly.  The men they capture are turned into girls in just the way that I have described; my fate is the fate of every man.  I often imagine tha I am the male champion, the last hope of manhood, and that finally one day, I am captured, and made an example of.  The girls thoroughly effeminate me, and turn me into their transsexual public slave.  Mankind falls soon after, and all men are enslaved to women who transform them into girls.  Sometimes I go as far as imagining that I am turned so completely into a girl that I begin to fantasize about sex with men, about actually having a cunt, and being fucked into it by some stud.  Other times, I imagine that I am not female, but am surrounded by erect dicks, and I revel in them, sucking one, jerking one off in each hand, and fucking one with my ass.  This is more rare, but at one time was alarmingly frequent.  I often admire the bravery of public transsexuals.

When I was young, I had a heirarchy of women's clothing I had to wear, and I had to womanize in them a certain number of times before I could advance to the next.  First, I had to womanize naked at least once.  Then, I had to wear pantihose, and nothing else, ten times, and at least once with black pantihose (which I found sexiest of all at the time, and had no access to).  I think fishnet stockings fell into this, too, but I might have considered them too hardcore to be considered mere pantihose.  At any rate, I eventually had to count every variety I could think of before the mistresses would allow me to move on to the next level: I had to wear white, with patterns, control-top, no control-top, and as many colours as possible  I wore them all, except the fishnets.  Then the next stage was probably leotards: the famous eighties female workout suits, which consisted of tight spandex leggings, and a tight spandex bodysuit which was much like a bathing suit.  This was to be done at least one hundred times, and the ultimate experience would be with a pink and purple one.  I only wore mom's, which were black, but still quite fun.  The body suit was too loose on the hips, though.  Still, it was quite enjoyable.  I would then graduate to bathing suits, at least ten thousand times.  I would have to wear bikinis and one-pieces.  I had to try a whole variety of them, just to get a feel for all of the different kinds.  


I did, in fact, try several different ones in my time.  My first, and one of the best, was M__'s blue one.  I only took the panty of that one, and it was contaminated by the leak in my waterbed.  But LORD was it ever intense!  I also stole mom's old red one, which was thin and of the same material, but of an unsexy low-thigh cut, which I nonetheless thorouhgly enjoyed for quite a time, and which I tried long before the bikini.  Then I stole mom's white Hudson's Bay striped suit, which was soft spandex, but cut high on the leg, and THICK.  It was very effective.  Then I stole M__'s grey cottony bikini, both parts.  It was a bit large, and not soft enough, but certinly did the job.  I found a little girl's swimsuit on the path home, and secretly took it late at night, wearing a trenchcoat and sunglasses.  It was very small, and filthy.  I had accidentally kept B__'s green wedgie suit in my bag once (actually, I knew it was there as I was leaving, but I neglected to tell her) and used it at least five times in two days.  I snuck into mom's newest suit, a flowery thing, when I finally resolved to give in to my passion, and not feel guilty about the intense pleasure.  I put it on quite often, and began to worry about being discovered again, when I stole a green slightly cottony but nicely high-cut cross backed one piece suit, which I proudly still own, and plan to wear tonight.  If only it were made of soft spandex. . . but the coup de grace among bathing suits is M__'s green and blue bikini, which I hate myself for having destroyed.  It was the most incredible thing: soft spandex, and with a hard kind of elastic which made it stick to my hips.  It was nice and thin, and wonderfully soft.  It was the best bikini I ever wore.  I wish I could get my hands on another.  


Anyway, I fantasized that I would have to try all kinds of bathing suits ten thousand times, and then finally be effeminated enough to be allowed to wear actual underwear.  But I had to start low, and work my way up to the sexiest lingerie.  I would have to wear underwear at least one hundred thousand times before the mistresses would completely transform me into one of them.  I started with what little was at hand of mom's big ugly panties, which fit ill on me, but at least were made of silk.  I also had to try cotton panties, but they were always too big.  I masked the effect by rolling them up (like I used to roll up my own panties and imagine that they were girls') or wearing them under pantihose.  I wore bras with the panties when I felt more daring, or when it suited me.  I wore slips and a silk nighty.  But it wasn't the full effect.  So I stole M__'s little silkies, which, as it turned out, were far too small.  But still, they afforded me much pleasure.  When I stole a pair of D__'s panties which were left on the bathroom floor, I was most gleeful.  I couldn't believe my luck.  So I took those, and have worn them almost to a thread, although they, too, are still a tiny bit too big.  But they are wonderful.  I also wore Mrs. D__'s various little panties, much to my pleasure, but dared not steal any.  My first experience with lingerie was the too-large lace teddy which I simply had to put on which I found in her closet while foraging for fun stuff.  I think I wore two of her bathing suits, too.  But of course, the largest plunge I ever took was buying the satin teddy, the garter belt and the fishnet stockings.  That is the ultimate indeed.  Nothing feels quite so feminine as that.

But I knew that this heirarchy was impossible to follow strictly, simply because I am not likely to masturbate one hundred thousand times in my lifetime, much less in only underwear.  So I cheated, and figured that it was a symptom of my advanced femininity.  I figured that it only slowed my progress when I gave in, and that I could thus never become truly female, because I didn't follow the rules; or more often, I was going too fast when I was breaking the rules, and I wouldn't be ready when suddenly, femininity snuck up on me.  Yes, that was it.  The desire was so intense that I couldn't resist going steps too far, and I would pay dearly for the increased pleasure.  The heirarchical way would have been too dull, and I would have been too accustomed, so I cheated, and got incredible shocks of femininity.  And I loved it.

The greatest part is imagining wearing swimsuits so often.  I imagine all of the possible varieties, and trying each of them on at their turn.  It would take a long, long, long time, and I would enjoy every second of it.  Swimsuits.  Bathing suits.  Bikinis.  Oh, how I long for a nice skimpy bikini!  Complete with bra and little panties.  How amazing it would be!  And I can still barely fathom wearing panties of all sorts.  It feels sometimes like I'm not quite at that level yet, where I can wear panties and various lingerie all the time.  It seems so incredible as to be far out of reach.  It's like the incredible moment of bliss, which I must acheive by first submitting to swimsuits.  I have found my favourite swimsuits, and I just need to acquire them before I can concentrate on underwear.  I vow to begin my search NOW.  I WILL find the perfect bikini, and somehow keep it, and then I will decide whether to find a new one-piece, (i.e. a silkier one of similar cut) or start collecting endless varieties of panties and underwear.  I almost did it once, by mail order, but couldn't find a way to actually get it mailed inconspicuously to my house.  One day, when I move out, I shall have it. . . 
But first, the bikini.  I will have it.  I must have it.  I will have it.  I swear.  These things make themselves available when I really want them.  It's a fact.

Diary: Mail-Order Lingerie

I have begun seriously inquiring into mail-order lingerie.  Really.  With my access to the internet via the school computers, I have browsed text files to find the lingerie sites.  Some offer mail order, others do not.  I was VERY interested in a French Maid Uniform, but I can't see any images.  I inquired further into that particular item, and discovered that they don't deliver to Canada anyway.  Another place doesn't mail to PO boxes.  However, I have found a way, I think, to view some images, and perhaps I can choose some of those items, and wear them in the future.  It's all a matter of my seeing what I want and ordering it, covertly.  I wish I had a JPG viewer.  Then, I could really know what it is I'm getting into.  I want to wear lingerie so badly.  Or more specifically, I want to own a woman's wardrobe.

I went shopping for clothes today, and I couldn't help be be drawn strongly towards ladies' swimsuits and lingerie.  I want it so badly.  I fantasized in the changeroom about trying on women's clothes instead.  I imagined hiding in the store at night, and when everyone is gone, try things on for fun, at my leisure.  I would be a kid in a candy store.  I'd visit the swimwear, women's apparel lingerie, cosmetics, and have a BLAST!!!  My heart pounds to think of it.

I should make a list of what I want to get:

* little satin panties
* little silk panties
* little lace panties
* (various combinations of the above, and many, each with a matching bra, and in various colours, especially white and black)
* my own one-piece swimsuit, very tight and high-cut on the thighs, but no thongs
* a string bikini, with triangle top
* a sexy silky, lacy, satiny smooth one piece lingerie thing
* a garter belt
* fishnet stockings
* silk stockings
* regular stockings
* control top pantihose
* regular pantihose
* a tight miniskirt
* a summer dress
* a tight minidress
* a French maid's uniform

I would love to just have a dresser FULL of women's clothes.  Exclusively women's clothes.  I would enjoy playing dress up all the time, and wear all the things I want at my convenience.  God, this is so cool.  It's somehow so gratifying to dress up like a girl.  I always go back to it.  It's always on my mind.  One of these days, I'll go all out.  I swear it.

I came across a web site for transvestites.  There was a text file about dressing guilt free that was very accurate.  It said that many men love to wear women's clothes because they love women so much that they want to emulate them, and that they often feel guilty when they do it.  It advised doing it in private, to avoid embarrassment.  It said that many men, because of their guilt, like to imagine being forced into it, to absolve themselves of guilt in their fantasies.  It even said that dressing up is at least as gratifying as intercourse (I get aroused thinking that it's MORE gratifying).  But there was one innacuracy: it didn't fully explain my psychology when I do it.  It seemed to say that men just want to feel the sexy soft silks against their bodies, and that they get turned on by it;  but the psychology behind it is much stronger than that.  For me, the thrill is in doing something naughty, for one thing, doing something that men are by no stretch of the imagination supposed to do; also, the thrill is in thinking of becoming a woman, whether she forces you or not.  The greatest thing is imagining that I'm becoming a girl, and that I am ecstatic about it.  Yes, that's it: imagining that, despite the mental barriers that I as a man have against displaying femininity, the feeling is so strong that I admit to wanting to become female.  It's the most taboo thing possible, to become a girl, in every way.  Just look how many of my fantasies become homoerotic, just because an integral part of female sexuality is loving dicks.  The thrill is not simply in being in contact with silk, otherwise men would get the same thrill out of wearing their own silk boxers.  No, the thrill is in putting on something designed for women, and women only, to make them look sexy, and being thrilled by it despite social taboos.  The thrill comes in realizing that you are thrilled about becoming (in your fantasies, at least) feminine.  I feel so sexy when I wear girls' clothes.  I usually imagine a girl to look up to, a girl that I want to look like, in having an hourglass shape, tits, hips, a pleasant looking fleshy flat spot between the legs.  I imagine being in that girl's skin, being that girl, that ultimate sexual object.  

It's weird sometimes how it happens.  I can be dead tired, and I'll be rolling around in bed, and get one of those incurable hardons which demand attention.  My fantasies demand girl's panties.  They are so incoherent in my half-sleep that they are nothing but symbolic.  The idea that something can be designed for women rarely coagulates: it's too complicated for the circumstances.  I blindly concentrate on some abstract idea of femininity, a thing that I worship because of the pleasure that it gives me through my dick, and somehow translate that into an idea which I can recognie even in these moments as pervertedly arousing: that I can abandon my masculinity and join the abstract idol of femininity.  The only way to do that is to wear her clothing.  That's the way I perceive it when I'm in such a state.  Sometimes, I fail to finish, out of fatigue, or insufficient desire.  Other times, I can't help but finish too soon, and the boner remains, and I need to do it again, but I'm still satisfied slightly.  

Another interesting factor is the absolute irreconciliability of my two sexual urges.  I always have the urge to fuck women, especially when in contact with real women.  When I'm alone, I inevitably think of my own femininity instead, and exploit it.  But when I'm with a girl, the last thing on my mind is wearing her clothes, or living a fantasy of her forcing me to become a girl too.  I just want to fuck her.  Even when I think of fucking when I'm alone, I can't usually turn to thoughts of effeminating myself.  When I do, I end up either fluctuating between them and accomplishing nothing, or choosing one over the other.  Probably 99% of the time, or more, it's got to be effeminacy.  It's just so much more thrilling.  When I have chosen effeminacy, I can never turn back.  It overpowers me.  Obviously, I'm not always successful at reaching my climax, but the other option becomes unattractive.  The opposite usually holds true as well, except that the idea that she would ask me in mid-fuck to wear her clothes usually creeps in and slows me down.  The rush of the climax is totally different, too.  I feel ultimately unsatisfied, most of the time, when I effeminate, probably because I know that I can never become a girl, and that really, the ultimate objective is to just masturbate forever and ever wearing girls' clothes, because that way I would never stop effeminating, which would make me a girl, I suppose.  But when I imagine fucking, I reach a climax, and I'm finished, and I've acheived everything that I fantasized about.  I keep promising to wear the little black satin lacy panties to sleep, but I always choke after I masturbate with them.  Not tonight.  I must do it tonight, just because I want to be that much more of a girly.

Diary: Science Says It's Possible!

How nice it is to think that my recent problems with women can be solved by admitting that I am a woman trapped inside a man's body.  My overwhelming desire to wear clothes designed to make girls extremely appealing, it arouses me to think kinkily, and is an obvious sign that my sexuality is innately feminine.  To rephrase, I wear women's underwear because I want to be a girl.  How compelling to think that I can just abandon my masculinity and become a girl by tossing off my male inhibitions and becoming a full-time transvestite.  I would feel so much more attractive and powerful, and even more so when I finally get my breast implants, and eventually get a sex change.

I have learned many interesting things today while perusing an OMNI magazine.  I have discovered that genitals are somehow interchangeable.  I had read before of a certain breed of tiger that its females, after giving birth, become virtual males: their clitorises enlarge and protrude, becoming penises.  Similarly, in men of all species, the penis is simply a lump of flesh sticking out of what would normally develop as a vagina.  It's all a matter of hormones.  And gonads.  There are rare cases of people who have testes or ovaries, but who become, by some defect, the opposite sex at birth, or even at puberty!

Now, here I am, wearing, on the outside, men's clothes, but underneath a pair of pantihose which my mother discarded and the black lacy panties which I stole from a friend's sister.  How strange!  How cool it would be if it were possible to switch sex spontaneously. . .

Here is an interesting excerpt from an interview with Roger Gorski, an american biologist:

OMNI:  . . .What is the TFM [testicular feminizing male]?

GORSKI:  Here you have the genetic male whose testes, although undescended, still produce normal amounts of testosterone.  But the TFM has genetically lost the androgen receptor all over the body--including the brain.  This genetic male cannot respond to testosterone.  So what is the phenotype [external characteristics] of this individual?  Female!  Female external sex organs, breasts, body fat distribution.  The internal sex organs, however, are not female.  Early in fetal life the testes produce another hormone, Muellerian duct inhibiting factor [MIF], that suppresses development of such female organs as the uterus and Fallopian tubes.  MIF is not a steroid and doesn't need the androgen receptor to operate.  Apparently MIF is normally secreted in the TFM, because those who function sexually  as women often have to go to a clinician because intercourse is painful.  That's because the deepest part of the vagina devellops from the Muellerian duct, which both sexes possess in early embryonic life and which is suppressed by MIF.

The human male testes also normally secrete small amounts of estrogen.  Because the TFM can't respond to testosterone during the prenatal period of sex differentiation, he develops as a female.  And at puberty, when these testes become active, he responds to the increased quantity of estrogen, developing breasts and becoming sexually active as a female.  These individuals rarely know they are male.  They're born looking like girls, are treated by parents and peers as girls, and so act like girls.  They are both phenotypically and psychosexually female  (132).

Stein, Douglas.  "Interview: Roger Gorski."  Omni Magazine Oct. 1990: 70+. 

Just imagine the possibilities, even in fiction!  I could alter that steamy little tale above a bit and include actual science!  How wonderful!