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.

Diary: Distraction

Mother, it's been twelve weeks since my last confession.

I've been a bad girl.  I only sparingly used my precious ressources.  In fact, I have only rarely been overwhelmingly inclined to dress myself up and thoroughly effeminate myself.  I have sinned severely.

Around the time of my last confession, I started consorting with a true female.  She has distracted me from my passionate transformations.  She gives me pleasure from the other side of the coin.  I must admit, the last time I came, it was probably the most intense sexual experience in some ways which I ever experienced.  I felt for a long while, while I humped her, like I was stoned.  I was dreaming or hallucinating as I rubbed up against her.  I seldom have so much energy.  I was amazed.  But I must admit, the thrill of femininity is far more exciting, if not quite as satisfying.  I think I know why, too.

When I screw around with real girls, I feel masculine.  There's nothing naughty about feeling masculine.  I'm just rubbing up against her gloriously feminine perfection.  In a way, big deal.  All men are supposed to do that.  So when I'm finished, I'm done for a good long while.  I might go again very soon, but it's not so satisfying anymore.  When I put on the silks and lace, however, and really make myself feel girlish, I don't want to stop.  I want to continue all night.  But I settle for the initial satisfaction most of the time.  Usually, when I come, I still have a boner.  In the process of removing whatever article of clothing which fuels my pleasure, I remember how naughty, how utterly damnable, my vice truly is; and this makes me want to commit it again.  I'm only temporarily satisfied.  I always force myself to put it away, because it's too risky to wait to refuel.  I could fall asleep, and get caught wearing a garter belt and a satin teddy, which would be unacceptable.  As much as I relish wearing girls' underwear, I don't want anyone to know.  In my case, I'm not just wearing women's clothing; I'm not just wearing women't underwear; I WEAR LINGERIE.  I own and frequently wear fishnet thigh-high stockings, which hook onto a garter belt; that done, I slip into a satin slip which creeps up my ass, and which has a tight little elastic around the waist.  It's white and frilly and lacy and soft.  It feels so feminine.  I need more lingerie, though.  I am already confounded with choices when I dig into my hiding spot for my lingerie, considering that I also own little satin panties and a one-piece swimsuit.  I need something that better contours the body, and which has the garters attached to it.  I also need a bikini swimsuit.  Desperately.  But all of this is just a pleasant digression.

The point I was making was that I have discovered why lingerie doesn't satisfy me as much as actual sex.  It's quite simple: as a fetish, it arouses me more than simple sex can; therefore, it never ceases to excite me, even after having spent all of my energy on attempting to satisfy it.  It is so incredibly gratifying to wear lingerie that I never feel satisfied.  Never.  This means that wearing lingerie is my ultimate sexual experience.  I never want to stop.  Often, when I slip into my lingerie,  or my panties, I swear that I will go to sleep in them.  The night I sleep in nothing but women's clothing will be the night that I become a complete girl.  I swear that I will do it tonight.  I don't care about the risks right now, while so engrossed in the possibilities.  Needless to say, I'm wearing my lingerie right now, underneath my men's clothes.  I dare not expose my girlishness except in my room.  Although only a few weeks ago, I ran around the house wearing only my lingerie looking for [my brother]'s [playing cards with page 3 girls on them], to compare underwear.  I'm wearing the most intimately feminine of clothing!  It blows my mind every time.  I'm dressed not just like a girl, but like a very sexy girl.  I'm wearing the ultimate in feminine clothing.  Nothing is more feminine than this.

But why underwear?  Why lingerie?  I think it's because I want to make myself look as much like an essential girl as I can, and that involves covering my genitals in the same sorts of things that girls use to cover theirs.  I always imagine myself to have a cunt under my lingerie, and that's what makes it so incredibly pleasant.  Also, the silk and the satin and the lace feels so very nice against my crotch, especially when it's tight.  The tightness really helps.  It's the whole sensual experience I'm after: I want to feel like a girl, and I want my manhood to feel well-stimulated.  Talk about contradictions!  But it's true.  I don't want to feel manly, and I think of my dick as a cunt.  I totally effeminate.  I move like a girl to feel good.  I feel my clothes with my hands (how I wish there were no hair!) to remind myself of how feminine my clothes are, and how much of a girl I must be if I'm wearing the kinds of things that I'm feeling.  Oh, a garter belt!  Lace!  Satin wrapped tightly around my dick!  The high cut up the thigh!  The snugness around the waist!  Oh, how I love to wear lingerie!

It's pretty fun to sit here and write this, because it prolongs my agonizingly tantalizing effeminacy.  The longer I think about it, the better.  I remember now the time(s) I went to work wearing the satin panties and/or the pantyhose under my uniform.  How risque!  What's to stop me from wearing my lingerie to bed?  I don't want to make a mess, for one thing.  I don't want to get caught for another.  But as for the latter, wasn't wearing it to work a much larger risk?  As for the former, there's nothing that a good pile of Kleenex won't fix.  I'm just afraid.  My biggest fear is that A__ [my new girlfriend] finds my stash someday, or worse yet, catches me in the act.  I can only dream that she fantasizes about me wearing her underwear.  I can never let any woman know.  Except maybe a prostitute who specializes in "forced feminizations," as I once noticed in [a local weekly newspaper's racy classifieds].  I doubt that it would be that stimulating.  But why not try it someday?  It might be pretty fun, I think, to just try.  I'd put on something sexy, and she would keep on whatever sexiness she has on, and we could hump each other.  I wonder if I would feel more inclined to fuck, though?  It's very hard to say.  I might be too shy to actually put it on in front of her, or I could conquer my embarrassment by thinking in manly terms that not even this can put a dent in my masculinity.  The key, of course, would be to totally surrender myself to femininity.  Oh, how it appeals to me!  I can't picture myself right now doing anything sexually with the woman if we were both wearing sexy lingerie.  I'd probably just do myself.  But I'm sure she could help.  Anyway, that's not the point.


Someday, I want to have a closet full of women's clothing, particularly lingerie, from which I can choose.  Any whim I might have for texture or material could be answered immediately.  For example, swimsuits have always caused me problems.  I never should have chucked the green and blue bikini.  It was sheer heaven!  As was mom's white one piece.  But I caved into my guilt, and lost out.  One day, I'll reacquire something as good.  The swimsuit I have simply won't do.  It's nice and tight and high cut, but it's just not silky enough.  I need the good old lycra or spandex swimsuit.  A nice thin one.  Oh, Goddess, how I used to enjoy those!  Just think of my innocence back then!  I would wear pantyhose or swimsuits with  my own underwear beneath, for fear of nasty consequences.  Imagine, I might enjoy it so much that I'll start wearing it all the time!  Imagine if I dared to wear it without protection, I'd be helpless against wearing it again and again, until I start wearing only women's clothes.  People would call me a fag!  

Oh, my heart palpitates as I think of it!  It's like I'm in love, and I'm all nervous.  But just think!  I was so afraid that I would become some kind of transvestite or something!  I knew that normal men don't wear girls' clothes.  I thought I must be some kind of weirdo.  I thought this must be how fags start.  Then they turn into women, because they don't stop themselves.  So I would think about it, get REALLY horny, and after much painful deliberation, guiltily steal into mom's bedroom, and "borrow" some pantyhose, or her bathing suit.  I would never dare put it on naked.  That would damn me forever!  I would never be able to resist it!  But I gave in so often, that I had to dare.  I had to take that huge step, because I was always giving in to my urges.  There I had the opportunity to explore what would happen if I did indeed go naked into it; I could find out how disastrous it would be.  I felt much as I do at this very moment: I shook with nervous anticipation each time.  So I finally dared, it must have been with pantihose first.  I think I still refused to go all the way with a swimsuit.  It was just too sexy.

So I dared to go naked.  Imagine the consequences of a boy in girls' clothes!  But how pleasant it was.  It was so much better than when I kept a hold of my masculinity.  I surrendered, but not completely, as the swimsuit indicates.  I felt so guilty about it, too.  And one day, I finally gave in, and went with the swimsuit naked, and probably had the biggest orgasm of my life.  I'm shaking like a leaf as I recall.  How afraid I was that I would turn into a girl when I wore those clothes!  I feared so much that I trembled as I slipped into pantyhose or swimsuit naked, slowly giving up more and more ground until I kept them both.  I must have started experimenting with mom's panties and bras at this time.  A boy going as far as wearing women's underwear!  And boy did my fears ever come through!  I wore something feminine almost every night, and thoroughly enjoyed myself.  I had a growing collection.  I longed for more.  I didn't care anymore that I was effeminating.  I loved the feeling of it.  I wanted to do it all the time.  Months of this passed, and I got more and more daring.  My obsession finally made me go as far as stealing a bikini.  One that I wish I still owned.  Just think, I was wearing a bikini!  And not long before, I didn't dare put on pantihose without my underwear to protect me from the onslaught of femininity!  I was completely gone.  I had become a compulsive transvestite.

So here I am, fully content that my boyhood fears that I would become some kind of girlish weirdo have come gloriously true.  I was always so afraid of eventually being a slave to my passions, so I resisted them as much as I could.  But they proved stronger than me.  Now, I'm the proud owner of lingerie, which I wear to my delight, but not quite as often as I feared when I was a boy.  Unfortunately.  I'm totally certain that my thrill in slowly getting to the point where I could wear nothing but girls' clothes came mostly form my fear being, in actual fact, earnest hope.  I feared my desire to become feminine.  The thrill, however, isn't gone now that I no longer fear.  Or do I?  I guess I still do.  I'm just not guilty about it anymore.  It's a good thing.  I wouldn't want to lose my collection! 

Diary: Swimsuit Raid

I took it anyway last time we were there.  I'm glad, too.  But I seem to have lost interest for a while.  I'm close to S__, now.  But that's irrelevant to this work.

A__, who works on a phone sex line, tells me that men fantasizing about wearing women's underwear is very widespread.  I always thought so.  It's just that no one will admit it.  But damnit, we still love to indulge in it, don't we?  We just love to feel feminine.  Do I ever.  I really need lingerie, badly.  The bathing suit didn't titillate me all that much.  But I own it, now, so I am glad.  I just need panties, teddies, stockings, a g string.  That's what I want.