It turns out that Marv Albert, the NBC sportscaster who was charged with assault and nasty sexual stuff, had tried to force a woman into rough sex. This woman testified that Albert, wearing white panties and a garter belt, tried to force her to suck his dick, but she tore off his hairpiece and ran away.
Man, this transvestism thing is getting popular!
I wrote a fantasy in my notebook the other night. It's a good one. I had to destroy it though. I'm not that brave.
It's a variation on the sorority house idea: I'm invited for some reason to live in a sorority house for a month or two, in the room of a girl who's away. Her dresser and closet are filled with all sorts of sexy lingerie. The usual ambiguity comes to play here: maybe I'm resisting, maybe the thought of wearing it never occurred to me. The girls tease me about it, and hide my clothes, and all that stuff. But I don't bite. When they steal my clothes, I'm happy to run around naked, chasing after them. After all, they're all young and beautiful, and maybe they'll want to fuck around.
But they keep drawing my attention to the contents of her closet and dresser. They have me go through it, looking for an item that supposedly does not belong there. I get to rummage through tonnes of silk and satin and lace, dainty and soft and pretty. The seed is planted.
Eventually, because none of the girls heed any of my sexual advances (as a matter of fact, they all reject them totally) I need some sort of sexual release. I think of the feminine things so near at hand. I long to touch something silky like that. I rummage through it all just to get horny. And I masturbate.
The incidents, of course, escalate: I start sniffing the panties, and touching them, and inevitably, I slip into them, partly out of an intense desire to feel their exquisite texture against my hard dick, partly out of curiosity. I discover femininity. And I don't want to stop.
At first, I do it in the utmost privacy, very careful that in no circumstances will I get caught. I am careful to not put too much on, in case I have to strip it off in a hurry. But my curiosity and my desire get the best of me: I dare to go as far as possible. I wear all sorts of lingerie. I primp in the mirror. I try it all on. I look forward to wearing lingerie every night.
What I don't know is that behind the mirror is a closed circuit video camera. They're watching me for the express purpose of watching me succumb to wearing their clothes.
One night, they all get together and watch, waiting for the perfect moment to burst into my room more quickly than I can react, turn on the light, and tear off the bedsheet, exposing me to all the world as a flaky transvestite.
There I sit in my bed, wearing a garter belt and panties and a bra, trying pathetically to cover myself up with my hands. But it's hopeless. I have nowhere to hide. The girls are all around me, pointing and laughing. Finally, the spokeswoman steps forward.
"I don't remember ___ giving you permission to wear her clothes."
I remain speechless, too embarrassed to talk. The other girls are snapping my bra and garters, and I try to swat away their hands.
"So how do you explain. . . this?" she asks, chuckling.
Again, I have no answer.
"Obviously, you get some kind of kick out of it, don't you? Don't you? Don't want to talk, eh? Well, it doesn't matter." She seductively moves her face close to mine. "You know that we can't let you get away with this, don't you? I mean, you've ruined ___'s underwear with your disgusting little fetish. What do you propose we do with you?"
I still can't answer. I'm mortified.
"One thing's for sure: you're never going to be manly again!"
The girls giggle and cheer as she says this, and they pick me up, and walk me, lingerie and all, down the hall to the bathroom, where they force me to strip naked. Then they tie down my limbs, and lather me with some smelly substance. They then proceed to remove every hair from my body, except my pubic hair, where they leave a bikini line. That being done, they force me back into my lingerie. I can't help but notice how much smoother the stockings feel on my bare legs.
They parade me downstairs to a room I had never seen before. They strap me spread-eagled to a bed, still in my lingerie. Next thing I know, a big burly behemoth of a man appears, naked as a jaybird, and he mounts me between my spread legs. He snaps my panty elastic and my bra strap. He caresses me with his hands. He makes me feel so effeminate. "How do you like that, sexy girl?" he coos. He starts squeezing my nipple, and undulating lasciviously on top of me. I can't help but feel incredibly stimulated. It's so easy to think of myself as a girl, with him on top of me, squeezing my tit. I find myself responding by gyrating my hips, to rub my own dick against his body--or rather to rub panty-clad pseudo-cunt against his hard prick. After I come, I remember that all the girls are watching me. I notice one with a video camera.
The man remains on top of me, cuddling me. I am totally disgusted with myself. I am still strapped in and wearing women's clothes, too. I don't feel the least bit feminine anymore.
"So, I see you rather enjoyed your little romp, hm?"
Again, I remain silent. I try to block her out.
"We're giving you a choice. Either you agree to become a girl, since you so desperately want to be, or you leave this place now. And let me tell you, if you leave now, we'll let the whole world know about your little secret."
I begged her to let me go. I ran off crying. They didn't even let me change. I still wore nothing but lingerie. They gave me men's clothes to put on top, but once outside, I had no opportunity to change. I was female underneath.
For a few days, I tried to return to normal life. But they left little signs everywhere: a pair of panties in my underwear drawer. One of the girls calls to me from across the street, calling me a sissy, a faggot, a drag queen. But worse, somehow I still can't stop. I long to wear the panties they leave me.
Months later, I try dating girls again. But they all suddenly stop returning my calls. I start finding posters of myself in lingerie everywhere. I don't know whether to tear them down or ignore them and try to be nonchalant. I'm confronted everywhere with giggles or strange looks. Everybody knows.
Of course I start over on my own again. I start wearing things that I steal from clotheslines, or buy. I am ashamed of myself. But I can't stop. Some days, I dare to shave myself and others I wear girls' stuff all day. At last, they catch me on one of those days, and strip me in public. I am exposed to the whole world in women's underwear. I crawl back to the sorority house.
They set me up with my own wardrobe, and I get to practice being a girl full-time.
Diary: How I Became Such a Sissy, and How I Hope To Become Even More of One
It started innocently enough. But I fear that the fears of men are well justified. Somehow, masculinity knows what threatens it; it knows its enemy, but is powerless against it.
It's a very distant memory: the annual school pantomime, with every class performing its own number. My entire kindergarten class, for reasons that I cannot recall, dressed up as flowers. We all had to wear white stockings. Or maybe we didn't dress up as flowers. We did definitely have to wear the white stockings. I have no recollection of what it was that we performed. I was, after all, only five years old. But that was the first time. Or at least it was the first time that I remember.
Some fathers object to any suggestion that their young boys wear anything even remotely feminine, be it stockings or dresses or kilts or whatever. They fear that somehow, their boy's mind might be warped, and he might grow up to be effeminate. Perhaps the young boy might become used to wearing feminine clothes and might grow to prefer it. Perhaps the boy might become homosexual. It was like a subversive idea that would cause the downfall of civilization if anyone ever learned of it.
I learned that idea in kindergarten. Those macho, over-protective fathers are quite close to the mark. Perhaps they know something more than they should, too. . .
How long before I actually dared to venture into the dirty laundry for more, I cannot say. But the idea must have lingered long in my head before I did it again. And I knew that it was wrong. I knew that I was seriously jeopardizing my masculinity by "borrowing" a pair of pantihose. That first innocent experience, when I was forced to wear girls' stockings in front of hundreds of people when I was five years old corrupted me forever. It was the first time, the first of countless thousands of times over the years, that I have worn women's clothing.
I must have hardly noticed it at first. But I remember asking my parents if I could sleep with those stockings on that night. I wanted to masturbate in them. But they denied me. I fell asleep that night longing for what they put away in my dresser, where I was afraid to reach for it, for fear of being discovered. I knew that they didn't want me to wear it. And I fear now that they were somewhat alarmed about my request.
I must have longed for pantihose for years before I summoned up the courage to wear some again. I have no idea how long I fantasized about it. I do remember rolling up my underwear to make it more skimpy and feminine. I probably worried about that, too. But it couldn't have been that troublesome: after all, I wasn't actually wearing women's underwear, I was just fantasizing about it.
Worse, I eventually did try on some pantihose. I think I dug for some in the dirty laundry a few tense times, without daring to take any. But eventually I did. I certainly didn't want to become too effeminate: I protected myself against it by keeping on my own underwear. But eventually, I succumbed to the temptation to go into it naked. And I worried afterwards that I had taken my experiments too far. I was afraid that one day, I might actually wear all sorts of effeminate things, like bathing suits and lingerie, because as I pleasured myself, I imagined myself wearing those effeminate underthings, and I hoped that I would one day wear only women's clothing.
I imagined myself being forced to wear things by beautiful women, and I would discover the pleasures they afforded, and aspire to be female. I would go through a hierarchy of femininity, wearing pantihose first, then leotards, then bathing suits, then bikinis, then lingerie. I made this up because I had to come up with some excuse for not having lingerie at hand. I would have jumped right into it if I had had the opportunity. I imagined myself in the middle of a less interesting stage of my feminine development, and cheating by trying on something super-sexy that I was officially not ready for yet. There would have been others like me around me, but they wouldn't be as enthusiastic about their clothing as me. I was crazy for doing it that way, risking my sanity somehow, perhaps risking my sexuality.
So, as the years went on, I tried on all sorts of things, always ashamed after I was done; but I couldn't make myself stop. I always returned to it. And that made it worse and worse: I thought that I could destroy my stolen pantihose and bathing suits and swear to never wear women's clothes again, and I would be cured. I thought that I could restore that part of my masculinity that I had lost by fantasizing about becoming female by renouncing my secret practice. But that only made me want it more. I would go for weeks or months without women's clothing, and curse myself for having gotten rid of it. I still fantasized about it, and it became unbearable. I absolutely needed to wear something feminine. Every time I quit and started again, it reinforced my femininity, and weakened my masculinity. Every time I started again, it proved that I did become effeminate by wearing women's underwear; and being effeminate, I needed to wear some girls' clothing to feel comfortable. I repressed myself so much in that time that it is not hard to imagine why I had such a difficult adolescence. So every time I went back to it, I felt that much more like a girl happy in her comfy, sexy underwear.
Men are correct in thinking that doing something effeminate, in my case wearing women's clothes, makes one irrevocably effeminate. That one little incident with the white stockings in kindergarten, even though I was far too young to have much of a sexual awareness, infected me with the tiniest little bit of girlishness. That tiny little bit has blossomed into a massive, barely controllable desire to be a girl, and to dress like a girl.
Just imagine the scandal! My precious masculinity, defiled by a scanty elasticated swatch of lace and silk! Unprotected against the high-cut crotch-cuddling spandex of a bathing suit! In direct contact with something which should only come into contact with femininity. Just picture it: a macho man wearing little silky panties, a bra, a garter belt, and stockings, acting as much as he can like a girl in heat. A horrible thought! But think of it as yourself, and think of yourself as that sexy slinky supermodel who skips around in her lingerie. It's not just the thought of wearing women's clothing, it's the thought of renouncing masculinity that arouses me. The idea that I could wear women's clothing often enough to actually become a woman drives me into a fit of passion.
I have this picture in my mind of a sexy woman in lingerie dangling some panties in front of me teasingly, enticing me into wearing them. I look at myself, and I'm wearing my own clothes. But the legs sticking out of my shorts are shaven smooth and effeminately sexy. I feel a pang of shame as I look at her, understand her suggestion, and understand that it means that I, a man, have willingly submitted to this process of feminization too many times to count, and that she expects me to do it again; it shames me that she knows that I, a man, wear women's underwear for sexual pleasure; but I get up, coyly, and follow her into the bedroom as she cajoles me by swinging her little panties under my nose; and it shames me that I remove all vestiges of masculinity from my body, and slip into the sexy lingerie she has selected for me to wear. But ultimately, I succumb to the lingerie, forgetting my shame, and abandon myself to wild sexual pleasure, just by being, at least cosmetically, female. Here's more of the fantasy told dramatically:
I sat at my comfy lay-z-boy, watching hockey on TV and drinking beer, when Amy appeared around the corner of the doorway, only her head visible. Her blond hair was up, with a few stray locks dangling around her neck. She purred as she called my name.
I looked right at her, and half expected what was coming. She grinned and slowly raised her arm, revealing it from its concealment behind the wall. She dangled some scanty little silky panties in her hand. "It's time to play," she meowed. She stepped out into the doorway wearing her favourite lingerie outfit: a white bra and panties with a matching garter belt and white stockings.
I could feel my head turn livid with shame as I understood her suggestion. I glanced away from her because I couldn't bear to look at her; but that was no better, as my glance fell to my own legs, silky smooth shaven, sticking out of my shorts. I turned towards her again, and she had come into the room just enough to hold out the panties centimetres from my face. I followed her as she backed away towards the bedroom, cajoling me all the way with the panties in my face. I could smell the delicate perfume in them, they were so close.
I felt self-conscious as I trailed shyly after her. I felt like hiding under the couch. I felt like I was walking up on stage at a massive theatre for the first time, wearing nothing at all, with everyone in the building gawking at me.
We finally reached the bedroom. "Here," she said playfully, handing me the panties. "I thought you'd like to try these on for me." I took them sheepishly in one hand as I pulled off my baggy shorts and underwear in one swipe with the other. I looked at her rummaging in her dresser, her lovely playful tits snug inside her frilly bra, and her legs dainty and lithe in her stockings. She was the sexiest, most beautiful woman I have ever seen.
I inspected the panties more closely. They were silky, with a lace trim, and white. The crotch elastic looked so pretty and delicate, as did the skimpy waistband. I slipped into them quickly, snapping the tight waistband as I reached the top. I rubbed my silky legs together and whipped off my shirt. I stared at my hairless body, wondering at how awkward and male it looked in my sexy little panties. Amy handed me another white bra and a garter belt, which I snapped on happily but nervously. I eagerly anticipated wearing stockings on my bare, shaven legs. I rolled them on luxuriously as Amy watched, approving of my feminine mannerisms.
I preened in the mirror for a few moments, my hair down, my super-hard dick tucked painfully out of view, and admired how gorgeous these clothes made me. Still, my butt looked too hard, and I had no tits, and my frame was too square and heavyset; but I looked pretty, well, pretty nonetheless. Amy opened the closet, and handed me the high-heeled sandals we had bought just for me because I could never fit my gargantuan feet into hers. I was now walking and talking like a girl, loving the feel of the stockings on my legs, and rubbing them effeminately together as I pranced around.
Amy grabbed me suddenly by the waist and threw me onto the bed. We snuggled up together, touching each other's feminine bodies, and talking about girlish things, like how pretty we looked in this or that, and how wonderful it would be to wear such and such a thing. We were girlfriends. We were so close in these moments. She would tease me about how I am enjoying wearing her lingerie, and I would blush demurely. Then we made out, and petted. I wanted to never remove my clothes.
She knew what she was getting herself into when she dangled those panties in front of me. I became wild with passion, feeling every bit the girl I wanted to be. I wrapped my legs around her and rubbed myself all over her belly. I screamed for a penis. I desperately yearned for a dick inside me, and I pretended that she was a man mounting me and fucking me. I totally lost control. And she loved it, because I became so passionate.
When I came at last, all over our pretty undies, I nearly fainted. I rolled Amy off of me, and remembered where I was, and who I was: a man, still a man, strapped in slinky feminine clothing, feeling utterly unable to extract myself. Again, I turned livid with shame, so completely aware that I was wearing a bra, panties, and a garter belt, and how the fabric of each of these items clung to my sweaty body. My body suddenly felt out of place in lingerie; I wanted desperately to get out of my feminine clothing, to run and hide from Amy. But she prevented me from leaving. She hugged me from behind, and would not let me leave. She fell asleep like this, fingering my bra strap and my garters, drawing my attention even more to what I wore; and I myself fell asleep as I was, unwilling to disturb Amy by getting up and taking it all off. That night I slept like a woman.
It's a very distant memory: the annual school pantomime, with every class performing its own number. My entire kindergarten class, for reasons that I cannot recall, dressed up as flowers. We all had to wear white stockings. Or maybe we didn't dress up as flowers. We did definitely have to wear the white stockings. I have no recollection of what it was that we performed. I was, after all, only five years old. But that was the first time. Or at least it was the first time that I remember.
Some fathers object to any suggestion that their young boys wear anything even remotely feminine, be it stockings or dresses or kilts or whatever. They fear that somehow, their boy's mind might be warped, and he might grow up to be effeminate. Perhaps the young boy might become used to wearing feminine clothes and might grow to prefer it. Perhaps the boy might become homosexual. It was like a subversive idea that would cause the downfall of civilization if anyone ever learned of it.
I learned that idea in kindergarten. Those macho, over-protective fathers are quite close to the mark. Perhaps they know something more than they should, too. . .
How long before I actually dared to venture into the dirty laundry for more, I cannot say. But the idea must have lingered long in my head before I did it again. And I knew that it was wrong. I knew that I was seriously jeopardizing my masculinity by "borrowing" a pair of pantihose. That first innocent experience, when I was forced to wear girls' stockings in front of hundreds of people when I was five years old corrupted me forever. It was the first time, the first of countless thousands of times over the years, that I have worn women's clothing.
I must have hardly noticed it at first. But I remember asking my parents if I could sleep with those stockings on that night. I wanted to masturbate in them. But they denied me. I fell asleep that night longing for what they put away in my dresser, where I was afraid to reach for it, for fear of being discovered. I knew that they didn't want me to wear it. And I fear now that they were somewhat alarmed about my request.
I must have longed for pantihose for years before I summoned up the courage to wear some again. I have no idea how long I fantasized about it. I do remember rolling up my underwear to make it more skimpy and feminine. I probably worried about that, too. But it couldn't have been that troublesome: after all, I wasn't actually wearing women's underwear, I was just fantasizing about it.
Worse, I eventually did try on some pantihose. I think I dug for some in the dirty laundry a few tense times, without daring to take any. But eventually I did. I certainly didn't want to become too effeminate: I protected myself against it by keeping on my own underwear. But eventually, I succumbed to the temptation to go into it naked. And I worried afterwards that I had taken my experiments too far. I was afraid that one day, I might actually wear all sorts of effeminate things, like bathing suits and lingerie, because as I pleasured myself, I imagined myself wearing those effeminate underthings, and I hoped that I would one day wear only women's clothing.
I imagined myself being forced to wear things by beautiful women, and I would discover the pleasures they afforded, and aspire to be female. I would go through a hierarchy of femininity, wearing pantihose first, then leotards, then bathing suits, then bikinis, then lingerie. I made this up because I had to come up with some excuse for not having lingerie at hand. I would have jumped right into it if I had had the opportunity. I imagined myself in the middle of a less interesting stage of my feminine development, and cheating by trying on something super-sexy that I was officially not ready for yet. There would have been others like me around me, but they wouldn't be as enthusiastic about their clothing as me. I was crazy for doing it that way, risking my sanity somehow, perhaps risking my sexuality.
So, as the years went on, I tried on all sorts of things, always ashamed after I was done; but I couldn't make myself stop. I always returned to it. And that made it worse and worse: I thought that I could destroy my stolen pantihose and bathing suits and swear to never wear women's clothes again, and I would be cured. I thought that I could restore that part of my masculinity that I had lost by fantasizing about becoming female by renouncing my secret practice. But that only made me want it more. I would go for weeks or months without women's clothing, and curse myself for having gotten rid of it. I still fantasized about it, and it became unbearable. I absolutely needed to wear something feminine. Every time I quit and started again, it reinforced my femininity, and weakened my masculinity. Every time I started again, it proved that I did become effeminate by wearing women's underwear; and being effeminate, I needed to wear some girls' clothing to feel comfortable. I repressed myself so much in that time that it is not hard to imagine why I had such a difficult adolescence. So every time I went back to it, I felt that much more like a girl happy in her comfy, sexy underwear.
Men are correct in thinking that doing something effeminate, in my case wearing women's clothes, makes one irrevocably effeminate. That one little incident with the white stockings in kindergarten, even though I was far too young to have much of a sexual awareness, infected me with the tiniest little bit of girlishness. That tiny little bit has blossomed into a massive, barely controllable desire to be a girl, and to dress like a girl.
Just imagine the scandal! My precious masculinity, defiled by a scanty elasticated swatch of lace and silk! Unprotected against the high-cut crotch-cuddling spandex of a bathing suit! In direct contact with something which should only come into contact with femininity. Just picture it: a macho man wearing little silky panties, a bra, a garter belt, and stockings, acting as much as he can like a girl in heat. A horrible thought! But think of it as yourself, and think of yourself as that sexy slinky supermodel who skips around in her lingerie. It's not just the thought of wearing women's clothing, it's the thought of renouncing masculinity that arouses me. The idea that I could wear women's clothing often enough to actually become a woman drives me into a fit of passion.
I have this picture in my mind of a sexy woman in lingerie dangling some panties in front of me teasingly, enticing me into wearing them. I look at myself, and I'm wearing my own clothes. But the legs sticking out of my shorts are shaven smooth and effeminately sexy. I feel a pang of shame as I look at her, understand her suggestion, and understand that it means that I, a man, have willingly submitted to this process of feminization too many times to count, and that she expects me to do it again; it shames me that she knows that I, a man, wear women's underwear for sexual pleasure; but I get up, coyly, and follow her into the bedroom as she cajoles me by swinging her little panties under my nose; and it shames me that I remove all vestiges of masculinity from my body, and slip into the sexy lingerie she has selected for me to wear. But ultimately, I succumb to the lingerie, forgetting my shame, and abandon myself to wild sexual pleasure, just by being, at least cosmetically, female. Here's more of the fantasy told dramatically:
I sat at my comfy lay-z-boy, watching hockey on TV and drinking beer, when Amy appeared around the corner of the doorway, only her head visible. Her blond hair was up, with a few stray locks dangling around her neck. She purred as she called my name.
I looked right at her, and half expected what was coming. She grinned and slowly raised her arm, revealing it from its concealment behind the wall. She dangled some scanty little silky panties in her hand. "It's time to play," she meowed. She stepped out into the doorway wearing her favourite lingerie outfit: a white bra and panties with a matching garter belt and white stockings.
I could feel my head turn livid with shame as I understood her suggestion. I glanced away from her because I couldn't bear to look at her; but that was no better, as my glance fell to my own legs, silky smooth shaven, sticking out of my shorts. I turned towards her again, and she had come into the room just enough to hold out the panties centimetres from my face. I followed her as she backed away towards the bedroom, cajoling me all the way with the panties in my face. I could smell the delicate perfume in them, they were so close.
I felt self-conscious as I trailed shyly after her. I felt like hiding under the couch. I felt like I was walking up on stage at a massive theatre for the first time, wearing nothing at all, with everyone in the building gawking at me.
We finally reached the bedroom. "Here," she said playfully, handing me the panties. "I thought you'd like to try these on for me." I took them sheepishly in one hand as I pulled off my baggy shorts and underwear in one swipe with the other. I looked at her rummaging in her dresser, her lovely playful tits snug inside her frilly bra, and her legs dainty and lithe in her stockings. She was the sexiest, most beautiful woman I have ever seen.
I inspected the panties more closely. They were silky, with a lace trim, and white. The crotch elastic looked so pretty and delicate, as did the skimpy waistband. I slipped into them quickly, snapping the tight waistband as I reached the top. I rubbed my silky legs together and whipped off my shirt. I stared at my hairless body, wondering at how awkward and male it looked in my sexy little panties. Amy handed me another white bra and a garter belt, which I snapped on happily but nervously. I eagerly anticipated wearing stockings on my bare, shaven legs. I rolled them on luxuriously as Amy watched, approving of my feminine mannerisms.
I preened in the mirror for a few moments, my hair down, my super-hard dick tucked painfully out of view, and admired how gorgeous these clothes made me. Still, my butt looked too hard, and I had no tits, and my frame was too square and heavyset; but I looked pretty, well, pretty nonetheless. Amy opened the closet, and handed me the high-heeled sandals we had bought just for me because I could never fit my gargantuan feet into hers. I was now walking and talking like a girl, loving the feel of the stockings on my legs, and rubbing them effeminately together as I pranced around.
Amy grabbed me suddenly by the waist and threw me onto the bed. We snuggled up together, touching each other's feminine bodies, and talking about girlish things, like how pretty we looked in this or that, and how wonderful it would be to wear such and such a thing. We were girlfriends. We were so close in these moments. She would tease me about how I am enjoying wearing her lingerie, and I would blush demurely. Then we made out, and petted. I wanted to never remove my clothes.
She knew what she was getting herself into when she dangled those panties in front of me. I became wild with passion, feeling every bit the girl I wanted to be. I wrapped my legs around her and rubbed myself all over her belly. I screamed for a penis. I desperately yearned for a dick inside me, and I pretended that she was a man mounting me and fucking me. I totally lost control. And she loved it, because I became so passionate.
When I came at last, all over our pretty undies, I nearly fainted. I rolled Amy off of me, and remembered where I was, and who I was: a man, still a man, strapped in slinky feminine clothing, feeling utterly unable to extract myself. Again, I turned livid with shame, so completely aware that I was wearing a bra, panties, and a garter belt, and how the fabric of each of these items clung to my sweaty body. My body suddenly felt out of place in lingerie; I wanted desperately to get out of my feminine clothing, to run and hide from Amy. But she prevented me from leaving. She hugged me from behind, and would not let me leave. She fell asleep like this, fingering my bra strap and my garters, drawing my attention even more to what I wore; and I myself fell asleep as I was, unwilling to disturb Amy by getting up and taking it all off. That night I slept like a woman.
Diary: Getting Revved Up
So I had a ball with A__'s underwear. I wore her dresses, even. I found out that I love the feel of material flowing around my legs. It feels so sexy, so pretty. That's all old news by now, though.
I just want to turn myself on right now. Just for the Hell of it. Last night I wore my little black panties with my garter belt holding up the stockings I cut out of pantihose (so soft and silky!) and the velvety bra, covered with A__'s dress-like nightgown. It felt quite wonderful. I love the feel of stockings on my legs.
I just want to turn myself on right now. Just for the Hell of it. Last night I wore my little black panties with my garter belt holding up the stockings I cut out of pantihose (so soft and silky!) and the velvety bra, covered with A__'s dress-like nightgown. It felt quite wonderful. I love the feel of stockings on my legs.
Diary: What I did in the Candy Store; Bonus Fantasy: Long-Distance Relationship
So I went there and did it. My god, what an experience! One of the most intense, ever! I tend to have some quite amazing sessions when I write about it first, but there was a little bit of time before my escapade of the day. But boy, did it ever work.
I didn't know quite where to start. I looked for shoes, but found nothing that could even come close to fitting my feet. I was disappointed at first. Then I went to the basement and found another of A__'s bras, and brought it up with me. I put it aside and looked through the closet and dresser again.
The first thing I put on was that little high-cut leotard, which was probably the most high-cut thing I've ever worn. I rubbed myself around a bit before I took control of myself and put it away for future reference. Nice and tight on the crotch, very high up the thigh, but a little old and worn out.
Next I put on that little silky off-white teddy. It was exquisite to rub around in silk. But then I took control of myself again, and went back to the closet. I didn't want to take this one off. I went right for the two dresses. First the short little blue one. I felt incredibly sexy. I rubbed a bit more, perpetually close to coming, and stopped myself again. There was more to do.
I put back the blue dress and slipped into the black and white gown that she wore to my grandparents' 60th anniversary. It's much tighter on me than it is on her. I was totally amazed at how wonderful it feels to have a skirt flowing around my legs. I could barely stand it any longer. I had to continue, but not with that dress on. I didn't want to ruin it.
I got up and took it off. When I returned to the closet, I noticed that the black teddy that I wanted a piece of was hanging behind a corner, out of sight! I immediately stripped out of the lacy teddy and put it on. It was quite wonderful, too. But I had more things to try. I was like a kid in a candy store.
I took it off and I had to try on that bathing suit again. It looked so interesting to me, and the first time I wore it, I wasn't totally in the mood for it. But I was intrigued by the back of it, which is high around the shoulders. I squeezed myself into it, and promptly fell onto the bed again in exctasy. There was no more stopping me. I wanted to try to put on some panties, but I simply could not stop myself this time. It was incredible. I was so horny, and I was so far gone into it that I simply could not contain myself. I came into my hand, an extremely viscous load, and spilled it all over my leg, dropped my dick right onto the bathing suit, and dripped onto the comforter. I made a bit of a mess. But it was so worth it. Probably the best one-piece bathing suit experience ever. It was most likely due to the other things I wore, and to the fact that it is A__'s (I admit that I thought of her much of the time, and thought about how I was feeling where her genitals once touched). That bathing suit will now forever remind me of an incredible sexual experience. I'm doomed.
And to think that I have yet to sample so much of her underwear! I still need to come inside those two teddies, and in her many panties, and in those leotards. . . God, I'm glad that she asked me to go back there again tomorrow to throw out the garbage. I'll be overjoyed to continue my experiments. I want to hang around in her dress, wearing her panties underneath, and maybe some stockings (perhaps my own fishnets, on my own garter belt?).
Just in case, I took her silky off-white teddy with me for tonight. I came already this evening, but I think I won't be able to resist doing it again. I even feel like wearing that velvety underwear she keeps in my drawer.
Anyway, I wanted to record a new fantasy:
My beloved girlie is leaving me for a trip somewhere with her family. I can't go because I need to work. So she goes alone, without me. But she makes sure that I don't feel too lonely.
We make love the night before she leaves. An incredible night of passion, with kinky touching and positions and the whole bit. But as we get dressed, she notices how sad I am about her departure.
"Don't worry, sniffy, you don't have to forget about me."
"I won't."
"I know. But here's a little something to keep you thinking of me." She scooped up her undies and dangled them in front of my face. I playfully swatted them away.
"What's all this about?"
"I don't want you to forget about me while I'm gone," she began again.
"Yes, darling, I'll treasure your dirty underwear," I said with a chuckle, somewhat turned on about keeping such an intimate memento.
"If you ever get really, um, lonely, just put them on."
"Oooh, as if I don't all the time," I kidded, thinking she was putting me on.
"No, seriously."
"Yes, dear. But as much as I would like to, I don't think that I can. They're probably too small. And what would the guys say?"
"Oh, don't worry about that. I'm sure they'll fit you. And nobody ever has to know. It'll be our little secret. Besides," she purred, rubbing her hand on my semi-dormant prick, "you know what part of my body is in constant contact with those, don't you?"
"Well, if you put it that way. . ."
So we fell asleep, and she left in the morning. She left her panties on my dresser, just as a token of her suggestion of the night before.
That evening, I felt so incredibly horny thinking about her, but she wasn't around. I missed her already. But I ignored my urges and went to sleep. This went on for a few days, until it became completely unbearable. Shedding away all my dignity, I decided that I might as well jerk off. I was quite eager to get going, but for some reason, I simply could not feel as good as I would have liked. I thought of our last conversation, and remembered the panties she left me.
I got to thinking about her in those panties, how they caressed her sweet, smelly cunt, that lovable curvaceous little lump of flesh and hair, the locus of my greatest pleasure. I wanted to touch it again. But she wasn't there. All I had were those panties, which hugged her snugly where I love her most. I compulsively snatched the panties off my dresser and sniffed them, and rubbed them on my dick.
It was fantastic. But I needed more. I needed to be in contact with that lovely little middle part that cradles her cunt at all times. I ran my finger along the lovely little lacy trim, and along the silky material, and I nearly swooned. I took her advice and put them on, and thoroughly enjoyed myself remembering her.
She was a bit surprised to find me still wearing them when she returned. I wore them every day since that first day. She giggled when she saw them.
"So I see you took my advice, hm?"
"Yes, and I'm still wearing them to show you how much I missed you."
She was touched, and we fucked each other's brains out immediately.
Her mother was ill, so she had to leave almost every weekend. I relied on the same ritual to remember her, and it served as an adequate replacement. She told me to simply grab whatever panty appealed to me at the moment, and I wore something sexy every day she was gone. She encouraged me to wear anything I wanted, including her bras, bathing suits, and lingerie, because she thought it was so sweet of me to think of her so much, and to be so attached to her things. She is so sentimental.
We became closer through this little ritual. I always felt so much love for her when I felt the divine fulcrum of her panties, my crotch rubbing up against what touches hers. I began to miss her so much even during our daily separation for work that I began to wear her panties every day. She was even more impressed. The ritual had become a daily one. Our sex life grew to a fever pitch.
We had so much fun getting dressed in the morning. I pretty well dumped all my own underwear. I didn't need it anymore. All I needed was hers, and I could think of her all day. We picked out the panties that we would wear each day. I wore her teddies sometimes, when it appealed to me. I even began to wear bras, even though I didn't need any support for my non-existent tits. I almost wished that I did. Our sex life consisted of this day-long ritual: we would dress each other up in similar clothes, careful not to do anything more than tease each other. Then we would think about sex all day, come home, and parade in front of each other in silky lacy girlish glee. The foreplay was the best part: we would cavort around in her underwear until almost the point of climax. I loved feeling close to her by wearing her underwear, and showing off to her how much I enjoyed feeling it on my body.
Our ritual escalated. I started shaving my body to feel more appropriate in her underwear. It looked so barbarous with all that hair sticking out everywhere. She helped me do it, she was so enthusiastic about it. My whole body was shaven clean, and I felt and looked sexier than ever in her panties. For the first time, I wore her stockings on my smooth legs, with her garter belt, and was amazed at how beautiful a girl I had become. So was she. She loved the idea of having me so devoted to her that I would want to be just like her.
There's so much room for psychological detail: showing how I move from man to woman, and how I rationalize and accept my transformation. Talk about how I never saw it coming until it was too late, and then I embraced it. It's lovely, isn't it?
I didn't know quite where to start. I looked for shoes, but found nothing that could even come close to fitting my feet. I was disappointed at first. Then I went to the basement and found another of A__'s bras, and brought it up with me. I put it aside and looked through the closet and dresser again.
The first thing I put on was that little high-cut leotard, which was probably the most high-cut thing I've ever worn. I rubbed myself around a bit before I took control of myself and put it away for future reference. Nice and tight on the crotch, very high up the thigh, but a little old and worn out.
Next I put on that little silky off-white teddy. It was exquisite to rub around in silk. But then I took control of myself again, and went back to the closet. I didn't want to take this one off. I went right for the two dresses. First the short little blue one. I felt incredibly sexy. I rubbed a bit more, perpetually close to coming, and stopped myself again. There was more to do.
I put back the blue dress and slipped into the black and white gown that she wore to my grandparents' 60th anniversary. It's much tighter on me than it is on her. I was totally amazed at how wonderful it feels to have a skirt flowing around my legs. I could barely stand it any longer. I had to continue, but not with that dress on. I didn't want to ruin it.
I got up and took it off. When I returned to the closet, I noticed that the black teddy that I wanted a piece of was hanging behind a corner, out of sight! I immediately stripped out of the lacy teddy and put it on. It was quite wonderful, too. But I had more things to try. I was like a kid in a candy store.
I took it off and I had to try on that bathing suit again. It looked so interesting to me, and the first time I wore it, I wasn't totally in the mood for it. But I was intrigued by the back of it, which is high around the shoulders. I squeezed myself into it, and promptly fell onto the bed again in exctasy. There was no more stopping me. I wanted to try to put on some panties, but I simply could not stop myself this time. It was incredible. I was so horny, and I was so far gone into it that I simply could not contain myself. I came into my hand, an extremely viscous load, and spilled it all over my leg, dropped my dick right onto the bathing suit, and dripped onto the comforter. I made a bit of a mess. But it was so worth it. Probably the best one-piece bathing suit experience ever. It was most likely due to the other things I wore, and to the fact that it is A__'s (I admit that I thought of her much of the time, and thought about how I was feeling where her genitals once touched). That bathing suit will now forever remind me of an incredible sexual experience. I'm doomed.
And to think that I have yet to sample so much of her underwear! I still need to come inside those two teddies, and in her many panties, and in those leotards. . . God, I'm glad that she asked me to go back there again tomorrow to throw out the garbage. I'll be overjoyed to continue my experiments. I want to hang around in her dress, wearing her panties underneath, and maybe some stockings (perhaps my own fishnets, on my own garter belt?).
Just in case, I took her silky off-white teddy with me for tonight. I came already this evening, but I think I won't be able to resist doing it again. I even feel like wearing that velvety underwear she keeps in my drawer.
Anyway, I wanted to record a new fantasy:
My beloved girlie is leaving me for a trip somewhere with her family. I can't go because I need to work. So she goes alone, without me. But she makes sure that I don't feel too lonely.
We make love the night before she leaves. An incredible night of passion, with kinky touching and positions and the whole bit. But as we get dressed, she notices how sad I am about her departure.
"Don't worry, sniffy, you don't have to forget about me."
"I won't."
"I know. But here's a little something to keep you thinking of me." She scooped up her undies and dangled them in front of my face. I playfully swatted them away.
"What's all this about?"
"I don't want you to forget about me while I'm gone," she began again.
"Yes, darling, I'll treasure your dirty underwear," I said with a chuckle, somewhat turned on about keeping such an intimate memento.
"If you ever get really, um, lonely, just put them on."
"Oooh, as if I don't all the time," I kidded, thinking she was putting me on.
"No, seriously."
"Yes, dear. But as much as I would like to, I don't think that I can. They're probably too small. And what would the guys say?"
"Oh, don't worry about that. I'm sure they'll fit you. And nobody ever has to know. It'll be our little secret. Besides," she purred, rubbing her hand on my semi-dormant prick, "you know what part of my body is in constant contact with those, don't you?"
"Well, if you put it that way. . ."
So we fell asleep, and she left in the morning. She left her panties on my dresser, just as a token of her suggestion of the night before.
That evening, I felt so incredibly horny thinking about her, but she wasn't around. I missed her already. But I ignored my urges and went to sleep. This went on for a few days, until it became completely unbearable. Shedding away all my dignity, I decided that I might as well jerk off. I was quite eager to get going, but for some reason, I simply could not feel as good as I would have liked. I thought of our last conversation, and remembered the panties she left me.
I got to thinking about her in those panties, how they caressed her sweet, smelly cunt, that lovable curvaceous little lump of flesh and hair, the locus of my greatest pleasure. I wanted to touch it again. But she wasn't there. All I had were those panties, which hugged her snugly where I love her most. I compulsively snatched the panties off my dresser and sniffed them, and rubbed them on my dick.
It was fantastic. But I needed more. I needed to be in contact with that lovely little middle part that cradles her cunt at all times. I ran my finger along the lovely little lacy trim, and along the silky material, and I nearly swooned. I took her advice and put them on, and thoroughly enjoyed myself remembering her.
She was a bit surprised to find me still wearing them when she returned. I wore them every day since that first day. She giggled when she saw them.
"So I see you took my advice, hm?"
"Yes, and I'm still wearing them to show you how much I missed you."
She was touched, and we fucked each other's brains out immediately.
Her mother was ill, so she had to leave almost every weekend. I relied on the same ritual to remember her, and it served as an adequate replacement. She told me to simply grab whatever panty appealed to me at the moment, and I wore something sexy every day she was gone. She encouraged me to wear anything I wanted, including her bras, bathing suits, and lingerie, because she thought it was so sweet of me to think of her so much, and to be so attached to her things. She is so sentimental.
We became closer through this little ritual. I always felt so much love for her when I felt the divine fulcrum of her panties, my crotch rubbing up against what touches hers. I began to miss her so much even during our daily separation for work that I began to wear her panties every day. She was even more impressed. The ritual had become a daily one. Our sex life grew to a fever pitch.
We had so much fun getting dressed in the morning. I pretty well dumped all my own underwear. I didn't need it anymore. All I needed was hers, and I could think of her all day. We picked out the panties that we would wear each day. I wore her teddies sometimes, when it appealed to me. I even began to wear bras, even though I didn't need any support for my non-existent tits. I almost wished that I did. Our sex life consisted of this day-long ritual: we would dress each other up in similar clothes, careful not to do anything more than tease each other. Then we would think about sex all day, come home, and parade in front of each other in silky lacy girlish glee. The foreplay was the best part: we would cavort around in her underwear until almost the point of climax. I loved feeling close to her by wearing her underwear, and showing off to her how much I enjoyed feeling it on my body.
Our ritual escalated. I started shaving my body to feel more appropriate in her underwear. It looked so barbarous with all that hair sticking out everywhere. She helped me do it, she was so enthusiastic about it. My whole body was shaven clean, and I felt and looked sexier than ever in her panties. For the first time, I wore her stockings on my smooth legs, with her garter belt, and was amazed at how beautiful a girl I had become. So was she. She loved the idea of having me so devoted to her that I would want to be just like her.
There's so much room for psychological detail: showing how I move from man to woman, and how I rationalize and accept my transformation. Talk about how I never saw it coming until it was too late, and then I embraced it. It's lovely, isn't it?
Diary: Candy Store
As it happens, A__ [my girlfriend] has gone away for ten days and left me the keys to her house. I went there as soon as I could to rummage through her dresser and closet, looking for fun things to wear. Among my top priorities were her bikini, which I doubted would be there, and her see-through lace underwear, which she had worn the day before she left.
The panties were there, but the bikini was not.
I was somewhat disappointed in the lack of a bikini, especially hers. Even though I have one of my own. But the see through lace was fantastic! I found so many potentially delightful things in there. I plan to return as soon as I can to explore them even more. I found that bathing suit that she never wears, her little stretchy leotard shorts, another leotard--high cut, and those teddy-shorts of silk and lace. So many options. I went through her panty drawer, too, and found lots of potentially amusing things. I can't wait to get my hands on them again.
I felt like going all the way last night, but I didn't dare, because I was filthy and I smelled like smoke and dirt. I didn't want to contaminate her dainty things. I found a bra in the basement laundry pile, which I put on with the see-through panties. Those panties were so tiny, but so incredibly sexy on me! I am very happy to have worn them. I will try on others of her panties, just for more fun. I want to try on her leotards, her teddy, and one or two of her dresses. I even want to wear some shoes. I want the whole nine yards, probably because it's completely available to me. I only wish I weren't limited by my recuperative abilities. I wish I could just go on and on forever. I might even steal some of her bottom-drawer, less distinctive panties, so that I can wear it whenever I want to.
So I'll be off again, and into her clothes. I might even try on some make-up, for fun. I'll be so effeminate! I just can't wait. . .
The panties were there, but the bikini was not.
I was somewhat disappointed in the lack of a bikini, especially hers. Even though I have one of my own. But the see through lace was fantastic! I found so many potentially delightful things in there. I plan to return as soon as I can to explore them even more. I found that bathing suit that she never wears, her little stretchy leotard shorts, another leotard--high cut, and those teddy-shorts of silk and lace. So many options. I went through her panty drawer, too, and found lots of potentially amusing things. I can't wait to get my hands on them again.
I felt like going all the way last night, but I didn't dare, because I was filthy and I smelled like smoke and dirt. I didn't want to contaminate her dainty things. I found a bra in the basement laundry pile, which I put on with the see-through panties. Those panties were so tiny, but so incredibly sexy on me! I am very happy to have worn them. I will try on others of her panties, just for more fun. I want to try on her leotards, her teddy, and one or two of her dresses. I even want to wear some shoes. I want the whole nine yards, probably because it's completely available to me. I only wish I weren't limited by my recuperative abilities. I wish I could just go on and on forever. I might even steal some of her bottom-drawer, less distinctive panties, so that I can wear it whenever I want to.
So I'll be off again, and into her clothes. I might even try on some make-up, for fun. I'll be so effeminate! I just can't wait. . .
Diary: Realizing that I Want to Be a Girl; the Seed, Planted; and, the Mad Scientist
I was right. I want to be a girl getting fucked. The idea is to become female, or at least feminine. It's not about becoming mock-feminine, but the real thing. I want to have a cunt, so that I can wear all that women wear, but especially so that I can fuck like a girl. Strangely, it's not that I have homosexual fantasies. I am a girl in my fantasies. I have imagined being a fag before, and sometimes it turns me on; but not like girls do--not nearly to the same extent. No, I want to have a dick in me only to feel like a girl. I'd rather be a lesbian, because girls appeal to me so much more.
A__ [my girlfriend] told me about a man she read about in the Enquirer: he was in love with Elle MacPherson, and in his blind obsession, transformed himself into a look-alike of her. He became a beautiful woman. The thought excites me. It reminded me of the man I once heard about on TV who was so good at looking like a girl that he made it into a James Bond movie as a bikini-clad extra. He has since become a girl. Those stories simply captivate me. Then I think of that story I read about the sorority house. What a fantasy! To have women teach me how to become like them. They would make me take hormones to get a feminine body, and I would practice walking around in women's clothing, and acting like a girl. An irreversible, and tantalizingly slow, transformation.
But here's what I'm really excited about: A__ [my girlfriend] asked me if I could house-sit for her family while they're away on vacation.
Imagine that! I would have access to whatever scraps of clothing she leaves behind for me! I could go to her house after work, or in the evening, and have my own little panty fashion show. I could wear that bathing suit that she never wears. I could wear her lingerie. I could wear her dresses, her skirts, her blouses. . . anything. And I would have no fear of discovery. Total privacy. I only hope that it comes to pass...
Anyway, I was thinking about another aspect of my fantasy, and it led me to thoughts of bikinis and silky undergarments.
There is always that notion of becoming female without really knowing it, having the effeminacy sneak up on me. Wear pantyhose on a dare one time, or whatever, and slowly become hooked for life on dressing up like a girl. The typical scenario, in other words. But here's the twist: it's always private in real life, and it's always public in fantasy. In my fantasies, the girls always force me to wear their panties, or entice me into becoming pretty like them, or whatever; in private, I hide myself to make sure that no one ever finds out what I do. Clearly, it's because I love it so much that I want it to be, in a way, public; I want to celebrate my femininity all out. But I can't without suffering the consequences of eternal shame. In my fantasies, shame is only a momentary accident of my situation; I have to deal with it as I first experience it; or someone is behind the whole thing, tricking me into doing it. I still love the idea: someone leaves her panties around for me to sniff, and takes all of mine away, leaving me no choice; I have to put them on, but I don't want to take them off; I do it more and more; and it's all from her secret machinations; and I eventually become like her, and she reveals her evil plan, of which I am not surprised, but grateful. I fantasize, in short, about my entire development as a trannie being some woman's plan to effeminate me. She always supplied things for me, and induced thoughts of underwear and swimsuits to get me to use them. Until the moment when I'm totally hooked.
I like this idea. What if this were the case? She only needed to plant them once or twice; I did the rest myself. I convinced myself that I could stop, but I knew deep down that the more I did it, the worse it would get. I remember thinking one time, while wearing pantyhose or something, that if I don't stop doing this soon I'll start wearing bikinis. And I remember thinking, deep down, God, I sure hope so. And I soon did, too. At another point, wearing a bikini, I probably thought, one of these days, if I don't stop soon, I'll have my own lingerie, and I'll shave my legs, and be very female. And I eventually did that, too. That's probably why I never could stop for very long: the promise of it getting worse.
My God! I wore a bikini when I was pretty young! And God, what an amazing experience it was! God, how I wish for femininity when I wear women's underwear! I fantasized always about the prospect of having to wear lingerie forever, and become forever more female. That's what I want to do right now.
I can't believe it, but I know that it's true: I have worn lingerie, directly on my body, without anything to protect me from it. And I once thought that I needed protection, or else I would succumb to abject girlishness. I wore my own underwear underneath my pantihose, for fear of it compelling me to go further. If I wear this naked, I thought, I'll want to wear bathing suits and underwear, too. Pantyhose, I thought, isn't so bad. But Lord, I wouldn't dare ever wear a bikini or some panties. I'd be some kind of freakish fag boy or something. I didn't want to want to wear women's clothing. Or so I thought. The thought of wearing it naked made me even hornier, made me want to do it rather than fear the consequences. I think that that was the point. I feared that I would become more feminine, not knowing that I was trying to become more feminine. There was nothing I wanted more. It was a fantasy: if I do wear this naked, then my fantasy might come true. At any rate, I couldn't control myself. I had to wear it naked. I had to find out how it felt. And boy, was I ever right: I did end up wearing much crazier things, like bathing suits, panties, bras, bikinis, lingerie, tights. . . And every minute until I started this long diary I hated what I was becoming. I didn't want to admit that I want to be a girl, that I want to revel in feminine sexuality. Oh, no! I've worn women's underwear! What will happen to me next? Will I want to wear it again? (You bet!) Will I start wearing bikinis, too? (Oh, God I hope so!) Will I start wearing it more and more often? (Oh, if only I could wear it all the time!) Fear actually fed my fantasies. It wasn't even fear: it was desire disguised as fear. Or else I was afraid of my strange desires.
I still have to tell you about my new twist. But after this fantasy that I dreamed up:
I'm a mad scientist, and I capture some young homeless man for my experiment. I want to force him to wear women's clothes, and see if I can transform him into a woman, not against his will, but entirely by it. I would imprison him and leave him only lingerie to wear. I would reward him for wearing it. All of this time, however, I would be doing this in the name of science. I would be getting no pleasure out of it.
Slowly, my victim would become female, but against his will. He would be perpetually angry about it. But he would get used to it, and never go back completely. But my experiment would seem to prove that I cannot change a man psychologically into a woman.
But he would want his revenge. Or, from a different perspective, he would want to express his gratitude. One day, while my guard is down, he would submit me to the same experiment. He would capture me and put me through exactly what I put him through. Only I would prove that it is possible to turn a man into a woman. I would bawl louder than him at first about my plight, knowing what lies in store for me; but eventually I would succumb with all my will to femininity. I would wear everything he gives me, and become a completely effeminated man, and I would love every second of it. I would love to have the freedom to wear only women's clothes, and masturbate all over them all day, every day, in an effort to become female. I would secure a razor and some hormones by which to transform myself. I would make myself his bitch in gratitude. I would love it, too. The End.
Here's the long awaited twist in my fantasies:
I'm the type of guy who cross dresses every now and then for fun. I like it. A lot. But it's my secret. I started it myself. Nobody knows about it. Nobody got me started on it, honestly or not. I am a self-made transvestite girlie wanna-be. And I try to become female in private. And only in private.
Only I get caught. By my girlfriend. She has a few options: she can freak out, walk away and tell everyone about it; she can freak out, and keep quiet about it; she can freak out, and have fun with it. In any case, she knows. And there are fun possibilities.
It's hard to write about; but for some reason, the possibility of getting caught exhilarated me today. Imagine if she finds out, and dumps me, and tells everyone. Then everyone knows what I do. Oh, well, might as well come out of the closet, eh? I'll shave my legs and become a girlie. And I'll like it. Or else she'll try to indulge me, because she likes seeing me get turned on. Yeeeeeee-haw!
It's very hard to describe my exhilaration. But I was very excited by the prospect. I suppose it just reminded me of my stockpile. Or my stockpile reminded me of it. I don't know what it is. I guess it just drives home the fact that I wear women's clothing, and that I have several items of it hidden in my room.
A__ [my girlfriend] told me about a man she read about in the Enquirer: he was in love with Elle MacPherson, and in his blind obsession, transformed himself into a look-alike of her. He became a beautiful woman. The thought excites me. It reminded me of the man I once heard about on TV who was so good at looking like a girl that he made it into a James Bond movie as a bikini-clad extra. He has since become a girl. Those stories simply captivate me. Then I think of that story I read about the sorority house. What a fantasy! To have women teach me how to become like them. They would make me take hormones to get a feminine body, and I would practice walking around in women's clothing, and acting like a girl. An irreversible, and tantalizingly slow, transformation.
But here's what I'm really excited about: A__ [my girlfriend] asked me if I could house-sit for her family while they're away on vacation.
Imagine that! I would have access to whatever scraps of clothing she leaves behind for me! I could go to her house after work, or in the evening, and have my own little panty fashion show. I could wear that bathing suit that she never wears. I could wear her lingerie. I could wear her dresses, her skirts, her blouses. . . anything. And I would have no fear of discovery. Total privacy. I only hope that it comes to pass...
Anyway, I was thinking about another aspect of my fantasy, and it led me to thoughts of bikinis and silky undergarments.
There is always that notion of becoming female without really knowing it, having the effeminacy sneak up on me. Wear pantyhose on a dare one time, or whatever, and slowly become hooked for life on dressing up like a girl. The typical scenario, in other words. But here's the twist: it's always private in real life, and it's always public in fantasy. In my fantasies, the girls always force me to wear their panties, or entice me into becoming pretty like them, or whatever; in private, I hide myself to make sure that no one ever finds out what I do. Clearly, it's because I love it so much that I want it to be, in a way, public; I want to celebrate my femininity all out. But I can't without suffering the consequences of eternal shame. In my fantasies, shame is only a momentary accident of my situation; I have to deal with it as I first experience it; or someone is behind the whole thing, tricking me into doing it. I still love the idea: someone leaves her panties around for me to sniff, and takes all of mine away, leaving me no choice; I have to put them on, but I don't want to take them off; I do it more and more; and it's all from her secret machinations; and I eventually become like her, and she reveals her evil plan, of which I am not surprised, but grateful. I fantasize, in short, about my entire development as a trannie being some woman's plan to effeminate me. She always supplied things for me, and induced thoughts of underwear and swimsuits to get me to use them. Until the moment when I'm totally hooked.
I like this idea. What if this were the case? She only needed to plant them once or twice; I did the rest myself. I convinced myself that I could stop, but I knew deep down that the more I did it, the worse it would get. I remember thinking one time, while wearing pantyhose or something, that if I don't stop doing this soon I'll start wearing bikinis. And I remember thinking, deep down, God, I sure hope so. And I soon did, too. At another point, wearing a bikini, I probably thought, one of these days, if I don't stop soon, I'll have my own lingerie, and I'll shave my legs, and be very female. And I eventually did that, too. That's probably why I never could stop for very long: the promise of it getting worse.
My God! I wore a bikini when I was pretty young! And God, what an amazing experience it was! God, how I wish for femininity when I wear women's underwear! I fantasized always about the prospect of having to wear lingerie forever, and become forever more female. That's what I want to do right now.
I can't believe it, but I know that it's true: I have worn lingerie, directly on my body, without anything to protect me from it. And I once thought that I needed protection, or else I would succumb to abject girlishness. I wore my own underwear underneath my pantihose, for fear of it compelling me to go further. If I wear this naked, I thought, I'll want to wear bathing suits and underwear, too. Pantyhose, I thought, isn't so bad. But Lord, I wouldn't dare ever wear a bikini or some panties. I'd be some kind of freakish fag boy or something. I didn't want to want to wear women's clothing. Or so I thought. The thought of wearing it naked made me even hornier, made me want to do it rather than fear the consequences. I think that that was the point. I feared that I would become more feminine, not knowing that I was trying to become more feminine. There was nothing I wanted more. It was a fantasy: if I do wear this naked, then my fantasy might come true. At any rate, I couldn't control myself. I had to wear it naked. I had to find out how it felt. And boy, was I ever right: I did end up wearing much crazier things, like bathing suits, panties, bras, bikinis, lingerie, tights. . . And every minute until I started this long diary I hated what I was becoming. I didn't want to admit that I want to be a girl, that I want to revel in feminine sexuality. Oh, no! I've worn women's underwear! What will happen to me next? Will I want to wear it again? (You bet!) Will I start wearing bikinis, too? (Oh, God I hope so!) Will I start wearing it more and more often? (Oh, if only I could wear it all the time!) Fear actually fed my fantasies. It wasn't even fear: it was desire disguised as fear. Or else I was afraid of my strange desires.
I still have to tell you about my new twist. But after this fantasy that I dreamed up:
I'm a mad scientist, and I capture some young homeless man for my experiment. I want to force him to wear women's clothes, and see if I can transform him into a woman, not against his will, but entirely by it. I would imprison him and leave him only lingerie to wear. I would reward him for wearing it. All of this time, however, I would be doing this in the name of science. I would be getting no pleasure out of it.
Slowly, my victim would become female, but against his will. He would be perpetually angry about it. But he would get used to it, and never go back completely. But my experiment would seem to prove that I cannot change a man psychologically into a woman.
But he would want his revenge. Or, from a different perspective, he would want to express his gratitude. One day, while my guard is down, he would submit me to the same experiment. He would capture me and put me through exactly what I put him through. Only I would prove that it is possible to turn a man into a woman. I would bawl louder than him at first about my plight, knowing what lies in store for me; but eventually I would succumb with all my will to femininity. I would wear everything he gives me, and become a completely effeminated man, and I would love every second of it. I would love to have the freedom to wear only women's clothes, and masturbate all over them all day, every day, in an effort to become female. I would secure a razor and some hormones by which to transform myself. I would make myself his bitch in gratitude. I would love it, too. The End.
Here's the long awaited twist in my fantasies:
I'm the type of guy who cross dresses every now and then for fun. I like it. A lot. But it's my secret. I started it myself. Nobody knows about it. Nobody got me started on it, honestly or not. I am a self-made transvestite girlie wanna-be. And I try to become female in private. And only in private.
Only I get caught. By my girlfriend. She has a few options: she can freak out, walk away and tell everyone about it; she can freak out, and keep quiet about it; she can freak out, and have fun with it. In any case, she knows. And there are fun possibilities.
It's hard to write about; but for some reason, the possibility of getting caught exhilarated me today. Imagine if she finds out, and dumps me, and tells everyone. Then everyone knows what I do. Oh, well, might as well come out of the closet, eh? I'll shave my legs and become a girlie. And I'll like it. Or else she'll try to indulge me, because she likes seeing me get turned on. Yeeeeeee-haw!
It's very hard to describe my exhilaration. But I was very excited by the prospect. I suppose it just reminded me of my stockpile. Or my stockpile reminded me of it. I don't know what it is. I guess it just drives home the fact that I wear women's clothing, and that I have several items of it hidden in my room.
Diary: 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.
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: Anticipation of a Bit of Freedom
It's all about feeling like a girl. I'm wearing my bikini now. A__ [my girlfriend] is gone for a week. I wore her bikini panties for a very short time while she was very nearby. I can't wait to wear it for longer...
Anyway, I have discovered once more that the whole thrill is about feeling like a girl, and surrendering to the sensation of femininity whatever the cost. I have to go now.
Anyway, I have discovered once more that the whole thrill is about feeling like a girl, and surrendering to the sensation of femininity whatever the cost. I have to go now.
Diary: More Capitulation
I've been feeling rather girlish lately. Unusually so. I swear that sometimes I catch myself fantasizing a little too much about being a girl.
I think I'm just horny lately, and this stuff just comes out the same way that it always has. I imagined myself the other day walking around in a pretty pair of high heels, and a miniskirt. A woman, striding confidently in her heels, lithe, slim, smooth legs, powerfully and unabashedly powering me forward, my butt hitched in the air in its little panties. I think of myself walking around like a girl. And it excites me.
On a heretical note, I was fantasizing about A__ [my girlfriend] today. Nothing transgendered, unfortunately. I was thinking about her standing naked in front of me, and me caressing her delicious belly and nuzzling into her spongy cunt hairs, lovingly, tenderly, and hornily. I want to get her so horny about it that she wraps her legs around my face and starts really rubbing it in, while standing, as she grabs a wall or something for support. Hmmmmmm. . . .
Anyway, back to my fantasies.
Today, I want to explore the idea of succumbing to the new lifestyle. I don't think I've left anything unexplored in here about that subject. So here we go again, as trite as it may seem.
The idea of resisting, and then accepting, and then embracing the idea and the act of wearing women's underwear interests me. I love to pretend that I don't really want to wear them, that I've never worn them before, but that the experience impresses me, and that after a variable period of time during which I wear them I decide that I'm never wearing anything else.
Just think of the shock of first wearing women's underwear. The shock of experiencing lace and silk and skimpiness all at once, that first time. I imagine the wonder of the initiate. The revulsion, at first, to the very idea. Then the gradual acceptance of it as an irreversible fact: I am wearing them; how vile; but it's too late. So then I decide to take them off. But the seed is in my head. I start to think of what happens to my sexuality when I do that. And I forget every time I fantasize about it thereafter.
In purely fantastic terms, I wear the panties, and tear them off in revulsion. But I can't forget the pleasure of the experience, and I inevitably crawl back for forgiveness. Or I'm nabbed the very first time by the pleasure, and I don't want to relinquish it. I struggle with my desire for a while, and then I give in completely to girlishness. I consider my options, and eventually overwhelmingly opt for women's clothing. I abandon masculinity completely. I refuse to go back to men's clothing. And I want the transformation to be complete.
You know, I would have worn my bikini to sleep last night if only I had some kleenex left. For the first time, I can say that I actually felt like wearing women's clothing to sleep. That first and last time with the lingerie I forced myself. I wanted to continue with the bikini all night. I was still horny, but unable to do much about it.
Maybe tonight.
And maybe actually doing it really signals that I am ready for that total change that I fantasize about: I am about to renounce my manhood, and wear women's clothing exclusively, and become a girl.
I think I'm just horny lately, and this stuff just comes out the same way that it always has. I imagined myself the other day walking around in a pretty pair of high heels, and a miniskirt. A woman, striding confidently in her heels, lithe, slim, smooth legs, powerfully and unabashedly powering me forward, my butt hitched in the air in its little panties. I think of myself walking around like a girl. And it excites me.
On a heretical note, I was fantasizing about A__ [my girlfriend] today. Nothing transgendered, unfortunately. I was thinking about her standing naked in front of me, and me caressing her delicious belly and nuzzling into her spongy cunt hairs, lovingly, tenderly, and hornily. I want to get her so horny about it that she wraps her legs around my face and starts really rubbing it in, while standing, as she grabs a wall or something for support. Hmmmmmm. . . .
Anyway, back to my fantasies.
Today, I want to explore the idea of succumbing to the new lifestyle. I don't think I've left anything unexplored in here about that subject. So here we go again, as trite as it may seem.
The idea of resisting, and then accepting, and then embracing the idea and the act of wearing women's underwear interests me. I love to pretend that I don't really want to wear them, that I've never worn them before, but that the experience impresses me, and that after a variable period of time during which I wear them I decide that I'm never wearing anything else.
Just think of the shock of first wearing women's underwear. The shock of experiencing lace and silk and skimpiness all at once, that first time. I imagine the wonder of the initiate. The revulsion, at first, to the very idea. Then the gradual acceptance of it as an irreversible fact: I am wearing them; how vile; but it's too late. So then I decide to take them off. But the seed is in my head. I start to think of what happens to my sexuality when I do that. And I forget every time I fantasize about it thereafter.
In purely fantastic terms, I wear the panties, and tear them off in revulsion. But I can't forget the pleasure of the experience, and I inevitably crawl back for forgiveness. Or I'm nabbed the very first time by the pleasure, and I don't want to relinquish it. I struggle with my desire for a while, and then I give in completely to girlishness. I consider my options, and eventually overwhelmingly opt for women's clothing. I abandon masculinity completely. I refuse to go back to men's clothing. And I want the transformation to be complete.
You know, I would have worn my bikini to sleep last night if only I had some kleenex left. For the first time, I can say that I actually felt like wearing women's clothing to sleep. That first and last time with the lingerie I forced myself. I wanted to continue with the bikini all night. I was still horny, but unable to do much about it.
Maybe tonight.
And maybe actually doing it really signals that I am ready for that total change that I fantasize about: I am about to renounce my manhood, and wear women's clothing exclusively, and become a girl.
Fantasy Double-Feature: Lingerie Store; and, Captured and Forced
Okay, maybe something a little bit different. I can tell that story over and over again over more than one hundred pages, and never get tired of telling it: the great metamorphosis.
Here's another fantasy: a man innocently goes to buy lingerie for his wife or girlfriend, but he unsuspectingly goes to a special lingerie store. No, not one of those that cater to transvestites. One that creates transvestites. He goes in, and nervously picks out something for his girl, but when he goes to buy it, the clerks goad him into trying it on. C'mon, they say. You have to try it on to be sure that it fits her. Maybe you won't like it once you see it worn. The man cajoles the clerks: why don't YOU try it on for me. I'm sure you'd look a hell of a lot better in it than me. To which she replies, yeah, but this is for your wife. I'm not your wife. That wouldn't be fair to her, now would it? Besides, I don't think your wife would care to wear something that another woman has worn. It's just not sanitary. You, she could stand, because presumably she pretty well shares your groin with you. So it's not so bad on you. Go ahead. Just try it on. There's mirrors in the change rooms.
So the guy tries it on, very reluctantly. Over his underwear, in fact. He feels foolish. He looks foolish. But it's his first taste. He goes downhill from there. He has to try it on again. He buys more and more lingerie for his woman. He tries it on all the time. Without underwear. He comes to crave it, without even knowing it. (there's the trick: how to convey that he's craving without knowing it? How to tell that he's obsessed with not only panties, but wearing panties?) He keeps thinking about how good she'd look in a certain kind of lingerie. He wants to keep returning to the lingerie store just to look at the panties, which turn him on more than his woman. (Easily described: He looks at the fine detail, and how it would feel on skin, and how it would caress the body, but not about how it would accentuate certain parts of his woman's figure.) Eventually, he starts playing with her undies, in his hands, just to feel them, just to look at them. He loves the way they look so feminine, moreso than woman. They are the femininity that he craves. He adores how they feel against his skin. It's only a matter of time before they touch his dick. And from there, it's only a matter of time before he slides into them in a passion of fetish, and rubs himself off in them.
Problem: is that the moment of recognition? Is that when he realizes that he has a problem? I suppose that it must be. How could one not find that problematic? I don't remember exactly what I thought when I first put on pantyhose by myself for masturbatory purposes, but I'm sure that it was scary and made me very ashamed after. That's when we get into the tired story of obsession. I think I want to stay away from that. I've talked enough about it.
How about this: forced effemination. I found an ad once in the back of Now magazine about an 'escort' who specializes in 'forced effemination.' What would that entail? No doubt, payment first. Then she takes you up to her apartment, and ties you up and forces you to wear her undies. But it has to go further than that, although that would be quite fantastic, I think. I would love to have a woman dress me up in her lingerie, and shave my body, and make me up, and then make me prance around before I collapse in a fit of total abandon at her feet, worshiping her and her effortless femininity. Here's something like a story that I never finished reading on the internet:
A guy answers a personal ad for some sexual fantasy. He meets this couple to make sure it's cool. Them for the same reason. He's misled, intentionally. He shows up, and they capture him, and turn him into a girl.
Here's my version: it would be totally involuntary, totally unexpected. I'm walking down the street when I'm captured. I wake up bound and gagged and blindfolded in the trunk of a car. They lug me out of the trunk and toss me in a basement somewhere. I can't escape: they're too strong, or I'm too weak from fighting or from being drugged.
I wake up naked in a dank cellar. Hours later, a scantily clad woman (of course) comes down to see me. I'm chained to the wall, so I can't escape. I'm naked. She tightens the chains, and makes it impossible for me to move. She takes me to another room, where they nair my body, from head to toe. I have no body hair left. I still have head hair. They toss me back in my cell, naked, and leave me there for a long time. They put a choke chain on me. They start commanding me, showing me who's boss. When I disobey, or don't obey fast enough, they tug and cause me great pain. In so doing, they make me put on women's underwear. Just panties and a bra. And they chain me up like that for the rest of the day.
Later, as the days go on, they let me go to the bathroom. But I have to wear women's underwear only. They make me wear spiked heels. They make me walk more effeminately. They put pills in my food, which I must eat or starve. I obey or I die. They make me gesture femininely. They make me act like a complete faggot. Soon they introduce me to garter belts and other items of lingerie. Stockings. I nair or shave my own body. My hair seems much more sparse after a while. And my voice starts getting higher. And my pecs start getting floppier and floppier.
They are turning me into a girl. In fact, they would tell me so from the very beginning. They will turn me into a girl, whether I like it or not. I don't. Not at all. But I have to get used to it. It's that or death. They eventually feel confident enough to remove the choke chain and allow me to prance around effeminately to our mutual pleasure. I still have a dick: I am a chick with a dick. But I want to be a girl. Desperately. So I dress like one, act like one, suck dicks like one, etc. I become completely female, except for one thing: my genital organ. I squeal for dicks. I'm totally metamorphosed. Female.
Let's go back: they start making me wear women's underwear. I feel ashamed and emasculated, especially in my hairless skin. I realize that I really do look feminine, sort of. They move in and start rubbing my flaccid, embarrassed dick. This goes on for quite a while.
They start doing things to make me horny. They get close, and they touch me tenderly, and they fondle me. They make me horny, but I'm wearing women's underwear. They make me rub myself with my panties on. They make fun of me, telling me that I'm a sissy, a girly-boy. That I'll be female in no time. That I can't do anything about it, and that I obviously love it. They make me angry, but I can't help it. They masturbate me. They tease me to make me super horny, and then laugh when I relieve myself in the only way physically possible. (They've chained me to a contraption that I can rub my dick against, and I do, and I can't help it. I need the relief.)
They make me prance around like a woman, so I get used to being feminine. I have to do it consciously at first, but soon it becomes habit. My only sexual outlet is when they let me jump on their machine. And they only allow me to if I act sufficiently feminine. That means different things throughout my development: First, walking like a girl. Then, talking like a girl. Then, gesturing like a girl. Then, doing everything better than I ever had. I come to realize that it's really not such a small price to pay. NO! First, they make me do girlish stuff for food, which isn't yet laced with estrogen. They condition me to be feminine or starve. If I do very well, they allow me to masturbate. Otherwise, they keep me chained up in a way that I can never rub my dick on anything. Just picture myself chained up, hairless, effeminate, in women's lingerie, a matching bra and panties, sweaty, struggling to break free. Lace and silk elastics, so delicate, biting into my flesh tantalizingly. So I become a bit more effeminate. I resist at first, but I have to turn myself around to live. I wear the clothes, I do as they say. They masturbate me themselves, and accentuate my pleasure by making me imagine myself female. And it starts to work, as I am angry to discover. They always push me harder and harder. Eventually, I suck dicks. They let me get fucked, and give me a choice. I choose men, because I want a penis in me. I am totally effeminate. I accept my new existence, and beg them to let me have estrogen, to make me into a girl. But they refuse.
By sheer force of will, my body changes. I grow tits, a waist, keep hair off, etc. I become a girl, by wearing women's underwear.
Here's another fantasy: a man innocently goes to buy lingerie for his wife or girlfriend, but he unsuspectingly goes to a special lingerie store. No, not one of those that cater to transvestites. One that creates transvestites. He goes in, and nervously picks out something for his girl, but when he goes to buy it, the clerks goad him into trying it on. C'mon, they say. You have to try it on to be sure that it fits her. Maybe you won't like it once you see it worn. The man cajoles the clerks: why don't YOU try it on for me. I'm sure you'd look a hell of a lot better in it than me. To which she replies, yeah, but this is for your wife. I'm not your wife. That wouldn't be fair to her, now would it? Besides, I don't think your wife would care to wear something that another woman has worn. It's just not sanitary. You, she could stand, because presumably she pretty well shares your groin with you. So it's not so bad on you. Go ahead. Just try it on. There's mirrors in the change rooms.
So the guy tries it on, very reluctantly. Over his underwear, in fact. He feels foolish. He looks foolish. But it's his first taste. He goes downhill from there. He has to try it on again. He buys more and more lingerie for his woman. He tries it on all the time. Without underwear. He comes to crave it, without even knowing it. (there's the trick: how to convey that he's craving without knowing it? How to tell that he's obsessed with not only panties, but wearing panties?) He keeps thinking about how good she'd look in a certain kind of lingerie. He wants to keep returning to the lingerie store just to look at the panties, which turn him on more than his woman. (Easily described: He looks at the fine detail, and how it would feel on skin, and how it would caress the body, but not about how it would accentuate certain parts of his woman's figure.) Eventually, he starts playing with her undies, in his hands, just to feel them, just to look at them. He loves the way they look so feminine, moreso than woman. They are the femininity that he craves. He adores how they feel against his skin. It's only a matter of time before they touch his dick. And from there, it's only a matter of time before he slides into them in a passion of fetish, and rubs himself off in them.
Problem: is that the moment of recognition? Is that when he realizes that he has a problem? I suppose that it must be. How could one not find that problematic? I don't remember exactly what I thought when I first put on pantyhose by myself for masturbatory purposes, but I'm sure that it was scary and made me very ashamed after. That's when we get into the tired story of obsession. I think I want to stay away from that. I've talked enough about it.
How about this: forced effemination. I found an ad once in the back of Now magazine about an 'escort' who specializes in 'forced effemination.' What would that entail? No doubt, payment first. Then she takes you up to her apartment, and ties you up and forces you to wear her undies. But it has to go further than that, although that would be quite fantastic, I think. I would love to have a woman dress me up in her lingerie, and shave my body, and make me up, and then make me prance around before I collapse in a fit of total abandon at her feet, worshiping her and her effortless femininity. Here's something like a story that I never finished reading on the internet:
A guy answers a personal ad for some sexual fantasy. He meets this couple to make sure it's cool. Them for the same reason. He's misled, intentionally. He shows up, and they capture him, and turn him into a girl.
Here's my version: it would be totally involuntary, totally unexpected. I'm walking down the street when I'm captured. I wake up bound and gagged and blindfolded in the trunk of a car. They lug me out of the trunk and toss me in a basement somewhere. I can't escape: they're too strong, or I'm too weak from fighting or from being drugged.
I wake up naked in a dank cellar. Hours later, a scantily clad woman (of course) comes down to see me. I'm chained to the wall, so I can't escape. I'm naked. She tightens the chains, and makes it impossible for me to move. She takes me to another room, where they nair my body, from head to toe. I have no body hair left. I still have head hair. They toss me back in my cell, naked, and leave me there for a long time. They put a choke chain on me. They start commanding me, showing me who's boss. When I disobey, or don't obey fast enough, they tug and cause me great pain. In so doing, they make me put on women's underwear. Just panties and a bra. And they chain me up like that for the rest of the day.
Later, as the days go on, they let me go to the bathroom. But I have to wear women's underwear only. They make me wear spiked heels. They make me walk more effeminately. They put pills in my food, which I must eat or starve. I obey or I die. They make me gesture femininely. They make me act like a complete faggot. Soon they introduce me to garter belts and other items of lingerie. Stockings. I nair or shave my own body. My hair seems much more sparse after a while. And my voice starts getting higher. And my pecs start getting floppier and floppier.
They are turning me into a girl. In fact, they would tell me so from the very beginning. They will turn me into a girl, whether I like it or not. I don't. Not at all. But I have to get used to it. It's that or death. They eventually feel confident enough to remove the choke chain and allow me to prance around effeminately to our mutual pleasure. I still have a dick: I am a chick with a dick. But I want to be a girl. Desperately. So I dress like one, act like one, suck dicks like one, etc. I become completely female, except for one thing: my genital organ. I squeal for dicks. I'm totally metamorphosed. Female.
Let's go back: they start making me wear women's underwear. I feel ashamed and emasculated, especially in my hairless skin. I realize that I really do look feminine, sort of. They move in and start rubbing my flaccid, embarrassed dick. This goes on for quite a while.
They start doing things to make me horny. They get close, and they touch me tenderly, and they fondle me. They make me horny, but I'm wearing women's underwear. They make me rub myself with my panties on. They make fun of me, telling me that I'm a sissy, a girly-boy. That I'll be female in no time. That I can't do anything about it, and that I obviously love it. They make me angry, but I can't help it. They masturbate me. They tease me to make me super horny, and then laugh when I relieve myself in the only way physically possible. (They've chained me to a contraption that I can rub my dick against, and I do, and I can't help it. I need the relief.)
They make me prance around like a woman, so I get used to being feminine. I have to do it consciously at first, but soon it becomes habit. My only sexual outlet is when they let me jump on their machine. And they only allow me to if I act sufficiently feminine. That means different things throughout my development: First, walking like a girl. Then, talking like a girl. Then, gesturing like a girl. Then, doing everything better than I ever had. I come to realize that it's really not such a small price to pay. NO! First, they make me do girlish stuff for food, which isn't yet laced with estrogen. They condition me to be feminine or starve. If I do very well, they allow me to masturbate. Otherwise, they keep me chained up in a way that I can never rub my dick on anything. Just picture myself chained up, hairless, effeminate, in women's lingerie, a matching bra and panties, sweaty, struggling to break free. Lace and silk elastics, so delicate, biting into my flesh tantalizingly. So I become a bit more effeminate. I resist at first, but I have to turn myself around to live. I wear the clothes, I do as they say. They masturbate me themselves, and accentuate my pleasure by making me imagine myself female. And it starts to work, as I am angry to discover. They always push me harder and harder. Eventually, I suck dicks. They let me get fucked, and give me a choice. I choose men, because I want a penis in me. I am totally effeminate. I accept my new existence, and beg them to let me have estrogen, to make me into a girl. But they refuse.
By sheer force of will, my body changes. I grow tits, a waist, keep hair off, etc. I become a girl, by wearing women's underwear.
Fiction: Laboratory Notes of a Sociological Experiment Flouting Social Norms of Gender
OK, stop right there. This would probably work much better as a diary. A lab book. With daily entries chronicling my slow transformation into a woman. Yeah, that would really work well. Suspense, excitement. Another fantastic experiment every day. Always something new. Yes, that will work amazingly well.
Finally, a writing project, albeit one that I can never show anyone. Except those transsexual types on the internet, maybe; I can smoke any of them easily. I'm a much better writer. Anyway:
Sunday, January 1, 1998
I am so sick of stupid social rules. The most nefarious rules are those that no one notices. Why is it that people dress the way they do? It astounds me that men wear such obvious phallic symbols around their necks all day to gain the respect of their peers. And why is it that only women (and Scotsmen) wear skirts? I don't understand why society insists on differentiating the sexes by clothing.
But that's all been done and said before. Look at the multitudes of rock stars who occasionally wear dresses on stage to shock their audiences, for example. Drag is simple enough. But what about going deeper? I'll bet that no self-respecting man would dare to wear women's underwear. Sure, there's that Rocky Horror type craze, but none of those cult fans would ever dare actually do it. They wouldn't want to harm their manhood. As if women's underwear can somehow damage their sexuality.
I want to prove to the world that these conventions of clothing are totally arbitrary and off-base. Why is it that only women are allowed to wear frilly pink silky panties with flowers on them? Why is that considered feminine? Boxer shorts, by comparison, can hardly be considered underwear. Why this distinction? Is it an objectification of women?
Here's what I propose to do: I will get myself some women's underwear. And I will wear it. And I will let everyone on earth know that it has no adverse effect on my manhood. I will show them how irrelevant their little notions of gender really are. It's not the clothes that make the man.
January 2 1998
Alicia thinks it's a crazy idea for me to wear women's underwear. She tells me that I'm going too far, that she can't respect a man who tries to be feminine. I explained to her that I'm not trying to be feminine, that I'm trying to prove that my masculinity bursts through no matter what I wear; and furthermore, that that is the case for all of us. She seemed a bit skeptical, but I think I convinced her. I went so far as to show her. I stormed into the bedroom in mid argument, pulled a pair of her panties out of her dresser, dropped my pants, and put her panties on. I stormed around in front of her, and she laughed at me. She thought it was funny. I must admit, she's much smaller than I am, and I did look a bit funny. But the point was made. My dick stuck out, unrestrained by the negligeable cover afforded by her tiny little panties. "All right," she said. "You've made your point, sort of. You look ridiculous, but there's no question that you're a man. But you're not proving anything to anyone with my underwear." She made me promise to buy my own underwear. "Besides," she said, "where better to start than in a retail lingerie outlet, where they would expect you to buy women's underwear for women, and not for yourself." A brilliant plan, I must admit. The plan is set: I'm going to buy my panties and bras tomorrow. I just need to think of some way to exhibit my disregard for these stupid rules without getting myself arrested for exposing myself.
January 3
The trip to the lingerie store was quite thrilling. Alicia refused to accompany me, claiming that it would only make it seem like I'm buying it for her. I had to make it crystal clear that I was shopping for myself, that I would be wearing whatever underwear I buy. It was the best way to make it public. But of course, that doesn't prove anything. Just that I bought women's lingerie.
Anyway, I bought myself seven pairs of panties, in various styles and colours: lacy, silky, satiny, frilly, black, white, red. I bought some bras to match, some more versatile. The clerk was very helpful, if a bit purturbed. She did indeed assume that I was shopping for my mate, but I had to set her straight. I think she was somewhat embarrassed by my claim. She refused to believe me at first. She thought that I was kidding in some sarcastic way. But eventually, she knew that I wasn't, and she helped me pick out something that would fit me. I'll start wearing it tomorrow, and try to show or tell as many people as possible. That'll show 'em.
January 4
I never expected that women's underwear could be so comfortable. I've been wearing these white silk bikini panties all day, and I find that they support me much better than my own underwear. In fact, they're very smooth, and I very much enjoy wearing them. The bra gets in the way a little bit, though. Alicia had to show me how to put it on before she burst into uproarious laughter. I looked absolutely stupid. But I had to make my point. Obviously, women's underwear is designed to fit female bodies, and I simply don't have one. Some of the features simply don't help me at all. The whole idea of wearing a bra seems pointless. But then again, it doesn't really do anything but hinder women, too. Alicia tells me that she's much more comfortable bra-less, and that she thinks that women wear them just for decoration. If that is the case, then I must wear one to complete the female under-uniform.
At any rate, I still don't know how to exhibit myself. I thought about just stripping down in a public place and starting a rant, but that just didn't seem appropriate. Besides, it's too cold outside for that. I'll have to find a better way, and a better opportunity.
January 10
Finally I got enough nerve today to rant and rave and exhibit myself. I don't think the plebes understood. They gaped and laughed and pointed at me like I'm some kind of freakish homosexual. But I'm not. They missed the point. Back to the ol' drawing board.
At least they know my face now. When I find a better way to get my message across, they'll remember me and know what I was trying to tell them.
February 5
Alicia gave me the cold shoulder today. She says she's sick and tired of me wearing a bra and panties. She doesn't like it at all. I tried to convince her that it doesn't mean anything, but she just doesn't get it. I mean, I explained it to her so many goddamned times. She should know that my masculinity is in no danger. I still fuck the shit out of her every night. Doesn't she get it? Why is it that even she is still clinging to that ridiculous rule. She makes me want to wear women's underwear even more, just to prove to her that I'm not going to become feminine. What a fool.
[big spat, angry Alicia throws my panties around, vowing to never return to me]
March 21
Now that Alicia has moved out, I feel much more free. I can wear what I want. I didn't realize how entrenched that clothing convention really is. I'm more determined than ever to show the world how foolish it is.
April 5
Damn it, none of these women understand what I'm doing. I picked up another bar chick tonight. She liked the way I dance. But she just didn't get it when we started getting naked back at my place. She was horrified about my underwear. Like all the others. My message is having no effect. I think I blew it large. I lost Alicia because of this. I suppose that some things are just intractable, and I can't fight them alone. I'm going back to my male underwear.
April 10
I hate these damned boxers. Women's underwear is so much more comfortable. Oh, well. I have to stick to manhood. If that's what they think manhood is, then so be it. I don't care.
April 17
I really have to get rid of those panties and bras. I don't want to wear my boxers anymore. I want my women's underwear. I put it in a box today, and shelved it. I don't want to even see it anymore. It's all the way in the back, where I'll forget about it in a week.
April 24
A funny thing happened to me today. I couldn't stop thinking about that box I put away last week, and its contents. So I took it down and opened it up, and slipped on my favourite silky panties and matching bra. I was so relieved. But I was also disturbed. I was too relieved. I had a huge bone-on. I didn't want to take them off. I haven't been laid in ages. I couldn't stop. I felt so ashamed after that I put them away again. I think they should go into the trash.
May 1
Finally, I'm back to normal. I couldn't do without that underwear. And to think that I almost threw it away. So now I'm wearing my black lace panties and bra set. I feel very sexy, too. I'm beginning to worry. I can't stop wearing it. And I'm really starting to feel, well, sexy. Slinky. God, I don't know what to think about this. Could it be that I was wrong all along, and I'm really becoming effeminate? Why would I need to wear women's underwear? And why do I feel so comfortable in it? Sometimes, I feel so ashamed of myself. But I can't do otherwise. I suppose that I had best keep this secret. I was wrong, and now I have to pay the price. I must try to wean myself off of them again, slowly and painfully, but irrevocably. I can't remain like this. It's dangerous.
May 10
My weaning is, I think going well. I wear my old boxers at least once a week, and I don't feel to eager to come back to silks and lace. I will increase my dosage to two days a week now, and hope for the best.
May 30
Oh, God, I couldn't wait to get out of those boxers today! They're so bulky and unimaginative. I can't stand them! It felt so amazingly good to come back to my little comfy panties. But this is terrible news. I don't want to wear women's clothing anymore, but I can't stop myself. I'm out of control. I've tried for a month to get back into men's clothes, but I can't take it. I'll have to go cold turkey. Tomorrow, I have to screw up my courage, and get rid of my women's underwear for good. In the trash. No more. I need to discipline myself here. NO more of this nonsense.
June 1
Well, my women's underwear is gone. I'll be back to normal now whether I like it or not.
June 27
Alicia called me today, and we talked for a long time. I hope that maybe we can get back together now.
July 10
I did a very bad thing today.
I went over to Alicia's. I talked with her. We sort of made up. But she is seeing someone else now. She doesn't want anything to do with me other than as platonic friendship. I showed her, in a very tense moment, that I'm not feminine anymore. She was embarrassed, and a bit angry, but she understood my pain. But she doesn't.
She took off to the washroom for a moment, and I just stared at her dresser. Where she keeps her underwear. I was trembling like a leaf. I felt nothing about her seeing another man. I was surprisingly unfazed. But her underwear drove me crazy. I impulsively opened her drawer to look at her, uh, drawers. She flushed the toilet, and I knew that I had better hurry. I took a pair of panties in my hand and stuffed them down my pants. I left her apartment soon thereafter. With her panties in my pants.
I was so nervous when I got home. I have Alicia's underwear here beside me. I'm trembling again. Just looking at them makes me shake. I want to put them on. Desperately. Oh, God, just the thought of it...
There. I have put them on. I am now wearing Alicia's cotton panties. No. I am now wearing my cotton panties. I don't want to take them off. I don't even want to see her anymore. I just want her underwear.
July 11
All day I wore those panties. And boy did it feel great. I felt so great in fact that I returned to the lingerie store where my experiment began and bought a bra to match them. And more lingerie. I can only wear it on special occasions, though. I can't permit myself to do it every day. That would be wrong.
July 18
So here I am wearing my panties and bra again. With increasing frequency. This simply must stop. But I've tried, and I cannot. I must quit cold turkey again. No more even thinking about this.
July 23
I'm sorry. I couldn't take it anymore. after almost a week without women's underwear, I snapped. I went back to the lingerie store and bought myself a very pretty silk and lace teddy, white, with fishnet stockings and a garter belt. I've never worn anything that feminine before. But that's not all.
I showered when I got home. And I shaved. My legs. And my torso. It took hours. I thought that my razor would burn out from overworking. But I got it done. I have no more body hair that I can see. And the stockings look pretty good on my smooth legs. They feel even better. The teddy feels a little tight, but overall quite smooth and comfy. I feel so excited. And it's all because of what I'm wearing. It makes me feel feminine. And I like feeling feminine. I'm afraid that I am becoming feminine. And I couldn't stop it. So I am now shaven and wearing women's lingerie. And I don't ever want to take it off, unless it's to slip into a more comfy, if less sexy, pair of women's cotton bikini panties. I can't wear men's clothes anymore. I simply cannot. At least, not underwear. I must maintain my outward male facade. This will be my little secret, this wearing women's underwear. No one must know.
July 31
My body hair doesn't seem to be growing back. I bought a miniskirt today. A short one.
August 10
Now I'm dressing outwardly as a girl for the first time. And I love it.
September 20
I met Alicia. She was shocked. She couldn't believe it. She couldn't recognize me. But she did. She took me in. I showed her how far it had gotten, how crazy my obsession has become. She was quite impressed. She showed me a few tips on how to look sexy. She's good at that. And they worked. I owe her so much. She's such a sweetie.
October 31
My nipples seem bigger. And my body hair still hasn't returned. But it only means less work for me. Finally, something to put in my bra.
December 25
I woke up this morning and looked at myself in the mirror. A fully shaped, full breasted woman stared back at me. I love my slim waist. My tits are getting nice and round.
[etc]
I can really work with this. Throw in more detail here and there. Yes, I like it a lot. But it needs more of my little fantasy about how wearing women's clothes actually physically transforms men into women. The more you wear it, the more you like it, and the more you become female. Then you begin to notice, but not care.
Finally, a writing project, albeit one that I can never show anyone. Except those transsexual types on the internet, maybe; I can smoke any of them easily. I'm a much better writer. Anyway:
Sunday, January 1, 1998
I am so sick of stupid social rules. The most nefarious rules are those that no one notices. Why is it that people dress the way they do? It astounds me that men wear such obvious phallic symbols around their necks all day to gain the respect of their peers. And why is it that only women (and Scotsmen) wear skirts? I don't understand why society insists on differentiating the sexes by clothing.
But that's all been done and said before. Look at the multitudes of rock stars who occasionally wear dresses on stage to shock their audiences, for example. Drag is simple enough. But what about going deeper? I'll bet that no self-respecting man would dare to wear women's underwear. Sure, there's that Rocky Horror type craze, but none of those cult fans would ever dare actually do it. They wouldn't want to harm their manhood. As if women's underwear can somehow damage their sexuality.
I want to prove to the world that these conventions of clothing are totally arbitrary and off-base. Why is it that only women are allowed to wear frilly pink silky panties with flowers on them? Why is that considered feminine? Boxer shorts, by comparison, can hardly be considered underwear. Why this distinction? Is it an objectification of women?
Here's what I propose to do: I will get myself some women's underwear. And I will wear it. And I will let everyone on earth know that it has no adverse effect on my manhood. I will show them how irrelevant their little notions of gender really are. It's not the clothes that make the man.
January 2 1998
Alicia thinks it's a crazy idea for me to wear women's underwear. She tells me that I'm going too far, that she can't respect a man who tries to be feminine. I explained to her that I'm not trying to be feminine, that I'm trying to prove that my masculinity bursts through no matter what I wear; and furthermore, that that is the case for all of us. She seemed a bit skeptical, but I think I convinced her. I went so far as to show her. I stormed into the bedroom in mid argument, pulled a pair of her panties out of her dresser, dropped my pants, and put her panties on. I stormed around in front of her, and she laughed at me. She thought it was funny. I must admit, she's much smaller than I am, and I did look a bit funny. But the point was made. My dick stuck out, unrestrained by the negligeable cover afforded by her tiny little panties. "All right," she said. "You've made your point, sort of. You look ridiculous, but there's no question that you're a man. But you're not proving anything to anyone with my underwear." She made me promise to buy my own underwear. "Besides," she said, "where better to start than in a retail lingerie outlet, where they would expect you to buy women's underwear for women, and not for yourself." A brilliant plan, I must admit. The plan is set: I'm going to buy my panties and bras tomorrow. I just need to think of some way to exhibit my disregard for these stupid rules without getting myself arrested for exposing myself.
January 3
The trip to the lingerie store was quite thrilling. Alicia refused to accompany me, claiming that it would only make it seem like I'm buying it for her. I had to make it crystal clear that I was shopping for myself, that I would be wearing whatever underwear I buy. It was the best way to make it public. But of course, that doesn't prove anything. Just that I bought women's lingerie.
Anyway, I bought myself seven pairs of panties, in various styles and colours: lacy, silky, satiny, frilly, black, white, red. I bought some bras to match, some more versatile. The clerk was very helpful, if a bit purturbed. She did indeed assume that I was shopping for my mate, but I had to set her straight. I think she was somewhat embarrassed by my claim. She refused to believe me at first. She thought that I was kidding in some sarcastic way. But eventually, she knew that I wasn't, and she helped me pick out something that would fit me. I'll start wearing it tomorrow, and try to show or tell as many people as possible. That'll show 'em.
January 4
I never expected that women's underwear could be so comfortable. I've been wearing these white silk bikini panties all day, and I find that they support me much better than my own underwear. In fact, they're very smooth, and I very much enjoy wearing them. The bra gets in the way a little bit, though. Alicia had to show me how to put it on before she burst into uproarious laughter. I looked absolutely stupid. But I had to make my point. Obviously, women's underwear is designed to fit female bodies, and I simply don't have one. Some of the features simply don't help me at all. The whole idea of wearing a bra seems pointless. But then again, it doesn't really do anything but hinder women, too. Alicia tells me that she's much more comfortable bra-less, and that she thinks that women wear them just for decoration. If that is the case, then I must wear one to complete the female under-uniform.
At any rate, I still don't know how to exhibit myself. I thought about just stripping down in a public place and starting a rant, but that just didn't seem appropriate. Besides, it's too cold outside for that. I'll have to find a better way, and a better opportunity.
January 10
Finally I got enough nerve today to rant and rave and exhibit myself. I don't think the plebes understood. They gaped and laughed and pointed at me like I'm some kind of freakish homosexual. But I'm not. They missed the point. Back to the ol' drawing board.
At least they know my face now. When I find a better way to get my message across, they'll remember me and know what I was trying to tell them.
February 5
Alicia gave me the cold shoulder today. She says she's sick and tired of me wearing a bra and panties. She doesn't like it at all. I tried to convince her that it doesn't mean anything, but she just doesn't get it. I mean, I explained it to her so many goddamned times. She should know that my masculinity is in no danger. I still fuck the shit out of her every night. Doesn't she get it? Why is it that even she is still clinging to that ridiculous rule. She makes me want to wear women's underwear even more, just to prove to her that I'm not going to become feminine. What a fool.
[big spat, angry Alicia throws my panties around, vowing to never return to me]
March 21
Now that Alicia has moved out, I feel much more free. I can wear what I want. I didn't realize how entrenched that clothing convention really is. I'm more determined than ever to show the world how foolish it is.
April 5
Damn it, none of these women understand what I'm doing. I picked up another bar chick tonight. She liked the way I dance. But she just didn't get it when we started getting naked back at my place. She was horrified about my underwear. Like all the others. My message is having no effect. I think I blew it large. I lost Alicia because of this. I suppose that some things are just intractable, and I can't fight them alone. I'm going back to my male underwear.
April 10
I hate these damned boxers. Women's underwear is so much more comfortable. Oh, well. I have to stick to manhood. If that's what they think manhood is, then so be it. I don't care.
April 17
I really have to get rid of those panties and bras. I don't want to wear my boxers anymore. I want my women's underwear. I put it in a box today, and shelved it. I don't want to even see it anymore. It's all the way in the back, where I'll forget about it in a week.
April 24
A funny thing happened to me today. I couldn't stop thinking about that box I put away last week, and its contents. So I took it down and opened it up, and slipped on my favourite silky panties and matching bra. I was so relieved. But I was also disturbed. I was too relieved. I had a huge bone-on. I didn't want to take them off. I haven't been laid in ages. I couldn't stop. I felt so ashamed after that I put them away again. I think they should go into the trash.
May 1
Finally, I'm back to normal. I couldn't do without that underwear. And to think that I almost threw it away. So now I'm wearing my black lace panties and bra set. I feel very sexy, too. I'm beginning to worry. I can't stop wearing it. And I'm really starting to feel, well, sexy. Slinky. God, I don't know what to think about this. Could it be that I was wrong all along, and I'm really becoming effeminate? Why would I need to wear women's underwear? And why do I feel so comfortable in it? Sometimes, I feel so ashamed of myself. But I can't do otherwise. I suppose that I had best keep this secret. I was wrong, and now I have to pay the price. I must try to wean myself off of them again, slowly and painfully, but irrevocably. I can't remain like this. It's dangerous.
May 10
My weaning is, I think going well. I wear my old boxers at least once a week, and I don't feel to eager to come back to silks and lace. I will increase my dosage to two days a week now, and hope for the best.
May 30
Oh, God, I couldn't wait to get out of those boxers today! They're so bulky and unimaginative. I can't stand them! It felt so amazingly good to come back to my little comfy panties. But this is terrible news. I don't want to wear women's clothing anymore, but I can't stop myself. I'm out of control. I've tried for a month to get back into men's clothes, but I can't take it. I'll have to go cold turkey. Tomorrow, I have to screw up my courage, and get rid of my women's underwear for good. In the trash. No more. I need to discipline myself here. NO more of this nonsense.
June 1
Well, my women's underwear is gone. I'll be back to normal now whether I like it or not.
June 27
Alicia called me today, and we talked for a long time. I hope that maybe we can get back together now.
July 10
I did a very bad thing today.
I went over to Alicia's. I talked with her. We sort of made up. But she is seeing someone else now. She doesn't want anything to do with me other than as platonic friendship. I showed her, in a very tense moment, that I'm not feminine anymore. She was embarrassed, and a bit angry, but she understood my pain. But she doesn't.
She took off to the washroom for a moment, and I just stared at her dresser. Where she keeps her underwear. I was trembling like a leaf. I felt nothing about her seeing another man. I was surprisingly unfazed. But her underwear drove me crazy. I impulsively opened her drawer to look at her, uh, drawers. She flushed the toilet, and I knew that I had better hurry. I took a pair of panties in my hand and stuffed them down my pants. I left her apartment soon thereafter. With her panties in my pants.
I was so nervous when I got home. I have Alicia's underwear here beside me. I'm trembling again. Just looking at them makes me shake. I want to put them on. Desperately. Oh, God, just the thought of it...
There. I have put them on. I am now wearing Alicia's cotton panties. No. I am now wearing my cotton panties. I don't want to take them off. I don't even want to see her anymore. I just want her underwear.
July 11
All day I wore those panties. And boy did it feel great. I felt so great in fact that I returned to the lingerie store where my experiment began and bought a bra to match them. And more lingerie. I can only wear it on special occasions, though. I can't permit myself to do it every day. That would be wrong.
July 18
So here I am wearing my panties and bra again. With increasing frequency. This simply must stop. But I've tried, and I cannot. I must quit cold turkey again. No more even thinking about this.
July 23
I'm sorry. I couldn't take it anymore. after almost a week without women's underwear, I snapped. I went back to the lingerie store and bought myself a very pretty silk and lace teddy, white, with fishnet stockings and a garter belt. I've never worn anything that feminine before. But that's not all.
I showered when I got home. And I shaved. My legs. And my torso. It took hours. I thought that my razor would burn out from overworking. But I got it done. I have no more body hair that I can see. And the stockings look pretty good on my smooth legs. They feel even better. The teddy feels a little tight, but overall quite smooth and comfy. I feel so excited. And it's all because of what I'm wearing. It makes me feel feminine. And I like feeling feminine. I'm afraid that I am becoming feminine. And I couldn't stop it. So I am now shaven and wearing women's lingerie. And I don't ever want to take it off, unless it's to slip into a more comfy, if less sexy, pair of women's cotton bikini panties. I can't wear men's clothes anymore. I simply cannot. At least, not underwear. I must maintain my outward male facade. This will be my little secret, this wearing women's underwear. No one must know.
July 31
My body hair doesn't seem to be growing back. I bought a miniskirt today. A short one.
August 10
Now I'm dressing outwardly as a girl for the first time. And I love it.
September 20
I met Alicia. She was shocked. She couldn't believe it. She couldn't recognize me. But she did. She took me in. I showed her how far it had gotten, how crazy my obsession has become. She was quite impressed. She showed me a few tips on how to look sexy. She's good at that. And they worked. I owe her so much. She's such a sweetie.
October 31
My nipples seem bigger. And my body hair still hasn't returned. But it only means less work for me. Finally, something to put in my bra.
December 25
I woke up this morning and looked at myself in the mirror. A fully shaped, full breasted woman stared back at me. I love my slim waist. My tits are getting nice and round.
[etc]
I can really work with this. Throw in more detail here and there. Yes, I like it a lot. But it needs more of my little fantasy about how wearing women's clothes actually physically transforms men into women. The more you wear it, the more you like it, and the more you become female. Then you begin to notice, but not care.
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