'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.
