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~Date: Mon, 5 Aug 1996 23:31:40 UTC

~Subject: Edie: Adventures in Panties and Dresses (1/5)

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Edie: Adventures in Panties and Dresses

Warning! This story has *serious* problems:

(1) It isn't porn, it's "erotic realism."

(2) The boy isn't effeminate. (I've grown tired of stories about

effeminate transvestites.)

(3) There aren't any sex scenes with anyone, male or female,

anywhere in the story. Nothing but clothes!

(4) Everything is consensual!...even when it doesn't look as if

it's going to be.

(5) The first time he looks in the mirror, he *doesn't see a

pretty girl!*

(6) He doesn't take hormones; he doesn't undergo surgery.

If, in spite of all these appalling disabilities, :) you can still

enjoy it...enjoy!

When I was eleven, I was the toughest kid in the neighborhood. The one who

came home with black eyes (but who gave more black eyes than he got), the

one who was always ready for a fight, a real scrapper.

What nobody knew was that this young neighborhood tough liked to wear

girls' panties.

It had started one afternoon when my sister asked me to get a handkerchief

out of her dresser, and while I was looking for the handkerchief, I opened

her lingerie drawer by mistake.

I was ready to close it again, but then I lingered a moment. I had never

seen her lingerie drawer before; here were stockings, bras, and panties in

neat piles. I ran my hand over the panties--how soft and smooth they were!

I picked a pair up; they were a shiny pink, edged with lace. I looked at

the part between the legs, the part that would touch my sister's pussy.

I never thought of my sister as sexy (I was only 10 and she only 12), but

even so, there was something magic about that. But there was something

magic about the panties themselves, and suddenly I had the momentary

thought, *What would it be like to put them on?* Then I was embarrassed

at thinking that, and ashamed. I put them back, quickly closed the drawer,

and fetched the handkerchief.

But one day the next week, I was home alone. (Both my parents worked, and

Sis belonged to some social group that met after school.) And I thought of

Sis's lingerie drawer again. I crept into her room and opened the drawer

again. There they all were, including the pink pair I had fondled the week

before. I took them out. I looked them over, inside and out, and felt

their texture--so soft! I put them to my lips; they smelled delicately of

some kind of cologne or perfume. Then I knew what I was going to do.

I took them to my room and took off all my clothes. My heart started to

pound as I sat down on my bed, lifted my leg, and put it into the panties.

In went the other leg. I drew them up. Sis was only two years older than

I was, and they fit perfectly. My penis got stiff. (I was still too young

to know what that signified.) I looked down at them; I ran my hands over

them, loving how soft and smooth they were. I touched the lace edging

with my fingers. I was a boy wearing a pretty pair of pink, lace-trimmed

panties.

I must have kept them on for an hour or more. First I just stared at them;

then I went and looked at myself in the mirror--my pale, skinny boy's body

with the pink panties on. On an impulse, I squeezed up against my reflec-

tion in the cold mirror and kissed it. I would have liked to kiss the

panties themselves, but I couldn't reach them. Then I lay down on the bed

and started to read. Every once in a while I'd stop reading and run my

hands over my panty-clad butt, feeling how satiny and smooth it was. I was

in heaven. Then I took them off--a sad moment, but I had to do it, because

Sis was going to be home soon--and put them back in her dresser drawer,

kissing them before putting them back.

But this soon became a habit: every afternoon when I wasn't out playing

baseball or football with the guys, I would go to Sis's room, select a pair

of panties, and put them on. At that age, she wore only white and pink,

and most of them were cotton; but not all. I preferred the silky ones and

only wore those. I loved these secret panty sessions, and I loved the

panties I put on. I used to kiss them before putting them on, and before

putting them away, just like a priest kissing his vestments.

This went on for a couple of years. I began discover sex, and I started

masturbating when I was in panties. This gave me nervous qualms about

whether wearing panties and jerking off was "normal" or not. A couple of

times I swore off, but my periods of abstinence never lasted more than a

couple of weeks; then I was back in panties again. And everything seemed

to remind me of them; I couldn't open a newspaper without seeing lingerie

ads with panties, and I'd see them and grow giddy with desire. In idle

moments at school, I would think about that forbidden drawer, and the

thought would make my head swim: in just a few hours...!

In my secret afternoon games, I would keep the panties on until the moment

I was back in Sis's room, ready to put them back; partly because I got a

thrill walking outside my own room and down the hall wearing nothing but a

pair of panties, but also because it meant putting off to the last minute

that sad moment when I had to take them off again and get back into boy's

things. You can guess what this led to: one day, when I was thirteen, I

got caught.

Sis must have come home while I was still in my room. Anyway, I was in

the hall, midway between my room and hers, with no place to hide, when she

found me.

"Eddie!!!! Are those *panties* you have on? What are you doing in them?"

I was speechless.

"How long has this been going on, anyway?" she pursued. "Look at you!

Come on--out with it! Have you ever done this before? Hey!--you must

have! That must be why my lingerie drawer is messed up some times. That

was you, wasn't it?"

I mumbled something.

"What? Speak up, Eddie, for Christ's sake. How long have you been wearing

my panties on the sly? You have been, haven't you?"

On the sly...! She had nailed me; that was just what I had been doing, and

it shocked me to hear it described in such blunt terms. It made me see

myself and what I had been doing from an outsider's point of view, and I

turned pale. "Well...er...I, that is, I, um...well, not very long," I

stammered. "I mean, only a couple of times...."

"It can't have been only a couple of times, Eddie! I fold my things and

keep them in order, and I know that I've seen that order disturbed more

than a couple of times, once at least a year ago."

I mumbled something else and fled back to my room. I had to get away. She

yelled, "Eddie! Come back here!" but at least she didn't follow me. I

knew that she was pissed, though, and that this wouldn't be the end of it.

It wasn't. That evening my sister had some girl friends over, girls from

her social club. I could hear them talking and giggling in her room. For

some reason--I don't remember what any more--I had to go to see her about

something. Just my luck! Here I was trying to avoid her, and I not only

had to talk with her, but I had to do it in front of a bunch of her

friends. I feared the worst.

There they were--my sister and three other girls, all about 15 years old.

My sister said, "This is my kid brother" and the other girls said, "Hi, kid

brother!" "His name is Eddie," Sis added, and they all chorused, "Hi,

Eddie."

Then Sis got an evil gleam in her eye. "He's my SISSY kid brother," she

said. "I've just found out that he likes to wear my panties."

They all squealed, "PANTIES??"

"Yes. In the afternoon, on the sly, when nobody else is home. I caught

him at it to-day. Look at him! That's my tough little brother, the terror

of the neighborhood, and he's *really* a sissy who likes to wear panties!"

And of course they all screamed and began to giggle. This was just as bad

as I had feared. It was about to get worse.

One of them, a girl named Betty, gave me a penetrating look and said, "He's

cute!" I blushed at that. And naturally Betty noticed my confusion at

once. "Oh, he's blushing! Look at him! I'll bet he'd like us to dress

him up! Do you want that, Eddie?"

What I wanted was to get the hell out of there. This panty business had

gotten out of hand! But then she made me sit down beside her on the bed.

"You like girls' clothes, do you? Do you want us to dress you like a girl?

You'd make a cute little girl, you know that? We can all be girls together

and have a little girl talk!"

My heart skipped a beat. One part of me was terrified at the thought of

being at the mercy of these girls and having them dress me up in some

godawful girl's stuff, while another part of me was hot with the allure of

it, aroused and excited at the thought of not only getting to wear girls'

clothes--maybe a complete outfit!--but with the added advantage that it

would be forced on me, so I wouldn't have to feel responsible for it. It

was a golden opportunity. The thought of losing control, of being in some-

one else's hands and forced to put on panties, and more, made me almost

dizzy with excitement.

And you can bet that this devilish girl noticed that; it was just as if

she could read my mind. "He wants it! Come on, let's dress him up! Then

we'll all be girls together."

Believe me, if Betty had gone into politics when she grew up, she would

have become President. She was a natural leader, and no sooner had she

said that we would all be girls together but the four of them--even my

sister!--grabbed me and started pulling my clothes off. I panicked and

squealed and protested and thrashed about, but there were four of them to

only one of me, and in minutes I was stark naked on my sister's bed. Then

my sister went to her dresser and opened the drawer--THAT drawer, which I

had opened so many times myself.

"Betty, I've got mostly white and pink," my sister said.

"What about those nice black ones there?" another girl, Anne, asked.

"Anne! Those are new! I don't want them on *him*!"

"Oh, come on," Betty said. "He won't hurt them. I want to see him in...

in..." her voice rose to a falsetto squeal, "...in *black lacy PANT-ies!*"

At this point, the part of me that wanted this to happen got the upper

hand. Suddenly I wanted nothing more in the world than to have these girls

put all that frilly underwear on me. I was wily enough to pretend to

object, and I kept squirming and kicking, but I made sure they were able

to overpower me. On went the black, lacy panties.

My sister was older now, and had a much more interesting assortment of

underwear than she had had when I was eleven. I had discovered that black

number myself just the week before, and had masturbated myself to a dry

orgasm in them. The recollection of this made me hard, and Betty, the

ringleader, cried, "Look! He's excited!"...and to me, "You really do like

these things, don't you? Hmm?" I could have killed her for being so

perceptive.

Then they put a garter belt on me. "Hold your leg out," one of them said,

holding a rolled-up stocking in her hand. "Hold still, Eddie," my sister

said, "Those are good stockings. If you run them you're going to catch

hell!" I held my leg still as the Anne carefully unrolled the stocking

onto my leg. Then she did the same with the other stocking, and they

clipped them onto the garters on the garter belt.

"Should we put a bra on him?" Betty asked.

"Why, what does he have that needs support...up there, I mean?" (giggle.)

"No," said Anne. "If we're going to dress him up as a girl, let's do it

right. Give him a bra."

"Okay," Sis said. "Let's see...oh, here's the black one."

"He'll look nice in those cups," said Sue, the other girl in the group.

"Solid on the bottom and lacy on the top."

"Eddie, stop struggling or you'll tear something," Sis said, "and then, by

heaven, I'll tear *you!*"

I hadn't tried wearing a bra before--well, only a couple of times (!)--

and I had never dared put a complete set of her underwear and stockings on.

Sis got a couple of handkerchiefs (oh, God, her handkerchiefs!--that was

how it had all started!) and wadded them up and put them in the bra cups

for stuffing. Then she said,

"Okay, Eddie--or should I say, Edie?--get up and look at yourself in the

mirror."

"Yes," said Betty. "Let him see what a pretty little girl he is."

I looked awful, but mostly because I was still in a panic at what was hap-

pening to me. There are two kinds of nightmare in life--the one in which

something happens to you that you've always feared, and the one in which

what happens is something you've always wanted, lusted for, but were scared

to admit you wanted. I was right in the middle of that second kind of

nightmare. Part of me was loving this whole experience, getting off on

it, relishing the feel of these girly clothes on my body, relishing the

experience of being made into a girl, dizzy and intoxicated with allure;

and part of me was in a whirl of anxiety, compounded by the guilt I felt

because I was enjoying it. And my stiff penis kept pressing against the

front of the panties.

I may have looked awful, but the girls stood around me, laughing and

telling me how cute I looked.

"Isn't he a *perfect* girl?" said Anne.

"Oooh, what nice titties you have, Edie!" said Sue.

"Don't your legs look *divine*!" said Betty.

"Baby, you've got a sweet little ass, you know that?" This from my sister!

I was shocked. I had never heard her use such language. I didn't know

girls talked like that, I didn't think they thought of themselves or of

other girls like that; and here they were talking about *me* that way, mak-

ing the kind of ribald remarks we boys made about girls. And as I looked

at my woebegone reflection in the mirror, at this scared, nervous little

boy in girl's underwear, sporting an erection, I realized that, although

I couldn't tell about my ass, my legs *did* look good. Very good. And

somewhere in the back of my mind I knew that I was going to try wearing

stockings the next time I indulged in one of my solitary dressup sessions.

"Now, what about a dress?" Anne asked, pondering.

"Something frilly," said Sis.

"No! Something sexy," Betty objected. "Make him look slutty!"

"Okay," my sister said, "I've got a great miniskirt. When I bought it, Mom

said it made *me* look like a slut."

Anne said, "But if he's wearing a miniskirt, won't the tops of his

stockings show?"

"We should have put him in pantyhose," Sue said.

"Doesn't matter," said Sis. "If he's going to look like a slut, he 'll

look sluttier still if his stocking tops show."

So they put a blouse and miniskirt on me. Then they put some powder on

my cheeks and lipstick on my lips. I was afraid they were going to put

perfume on me, too, that would smell all the rest of the evening, and maybe

longer; but they were beginning to lose interest...except for Betty, who

decided that I should be made to stay dressed as a girl for a full hour.

So I sat down with them, and presently--and amazingly--we got to talking

quietly about school and about the teachers we had, and it suddenly came

to me that I felt very comfortable in these clothes. They felt so *right*

on me! I was relaxing, in fact, and while part of me was still acutely

conscious of what I was wearing, another part of me was beginning to take

them for granted, except that every once in a while, for example when one

of them said something about boys, Betty would look over at me, grin, and

say, "Except for you, Eddie." For this hour, at least, I wasn't a boy.

At first, I thought my hour in drag would never end, but suddenly it was

over. Betty looked at her watch, and said, "Okay, Eddie, you've been a

good sport. Time's up." And I suddenly realized that I was sorry the time

was up. I had the same sad feeling I always got when I dressed in secret

and it was time to stop. I didn't want to take the things off. Slowly I

unzipped and took off the miniskirt and removed the blouse. Off came the

other things, slowly and carefully. I took a long time over the stockings,

with the excuse that I didn't dare harm them, but actually because I loved

the way my legs looked in them and the way they felt on me.

When I had gotten my own clothes on, Betty said, "Okay, you can go back to

your room. I'll bet you're going to play with yourself now--aren't you?--

after being dressed up as a girl!" That woman was reading my thoughts

again.

And I did. I went back to my room and started masturbating. I was going

to jerk off as I never had before...but in the event, I was so excited from

my full hour of arousal that I came almost immediately, and for the first

time in my life, a couple of drops of clear fluid oozed out of my penis.

The next morning as we were going to breakfast, Sis looked at me and

murmured, "I'm not surprised." Oh God. What did that mean? I was so

upset that I skipped my panty play that afternoon. Later, after she got

home from school, she came into my room.

"You liked that, didn't you."

"Liked what?" I asked, trying to play dumb.

"You know what I mean. You liked it when we dressed you up last night.

You were so hot I thought you were going to lose it right then and there.

"I'll tell you something else. I've been thinking about this. I'll bet

Betty was right. I'll bet you like to put them on and jerk off in them."

Betty wasn't the only mind reader in the crowd, I realized. It was appal-

ling to realize how transparent I was, and even more appalling to hear her

say "jerk off" in such a casual way. Without waiting for an answer, she

continued:

"Well, I'll make a deal with you, my little sister. You stop wearing my

things, or I'll tell Mom and Dad and then you'll be in plenty of hot water.

I don't want your grubby hands on my nice underwear, and I don't want my

nice underwear on your grubby body." Sisters can be so sweet. "And I

especially don't want any nasty spots on them. But I'll shop for you. You

give me the money and tell me what you want and what size you wear, and

I'll go get it. Come to think of it, you don't have to tell me what size;

my things fitted you okay last night."

I was thunderstruck. "Sis, you don't mean it! You mean you would actually

go out and *get* panties for me to wear?" Was I *really* talking openly

with her about this?

"If that's what it takes to keep you from sneaking into my lingerie drawer,

yes; I'll do it."

"You aren't going to tell those other girls about this arrangement, are

you?"

"You bet I am! I'll tell them, all right. That's part of the deal. I

shop for you, you keep out of my drawers"--she gave me a leer--"and every

once in a while my tough little brother will turn sissy and put on a little

fashion show for us."

Well, of course I agreed. I didn't have much choice. It was a very nice

and convenient arrangement, actually, and although I felt uncomfortable at

knowing my sister was on to me (and that she had something with which she

could blackmail me), it struck me that maybe, just possibly, there was an

unexpected streak of kindness and, maybe even compassion, in her nature.

In retrospect, I think there was.

Over the next week, I thought of nothing but that evening and of how it

had felt to be dressed up. On my afternoon panty sessions, I now put on

various other things as well, usually a garter belt and stockings. At

least now I didn't have to be afraid Sis would come home unexpectedly.

That was a relief.

So that's how I got into crossdressing. My sister and her friends kept up

my "fashion shows" for a time. Sis would come and knock on my door, or

sometimes just walk in and announce, "I've got something for you to model,"

or sometimes, "Time for your show." Whenever she bought something for me,

she would make me model it for her and her friends before she gave it to

me. I would go into her room and put on whatever they wanted me to wear.

Some evenings they would laugh at me and tease me; but other times, they

would offer kind and patient advice and instruction, as if I were their kid

sister.

I enjoyed modelling things for them, and I enjoyed dressing up for them.

Well...let's face it: I enjoyed dressing up. My solitary afternoon games

were more interesting now, because, thanks to Sis's help, I gradually got a

more varied selection of things to wear. That first week Sis bought me my

first pair of panties: black ones. She had noticed how turned on I had

been by those black ones of hers. These were cheaper, with no lace, but

I loved the silky-smooth feel of them and the contrast between the black

material and my pale skin. The following week she brought me my first

garter belt, also black, and two pairs of stockings. Later, I would occa-

sionally wear a bra and a castoff dress that Sis said it was O.K. for me to

wear. She had turned over one dress and a skirt and blouse for me to wear.

The dress was pink and frilly. The skirt was a tan one, rather plain, but

the blouse was white and had ruffles down the front.

And usually I put on makeup--lipstick every time, and eye shadow, and on

special occasions--"bra days," when I was feeling especially femme--every

bit of makeup I could reasonably get on my face: foundation, blush, eye

shadow, mascara, the works. Then, dressed that way, I would read her

fashion magazines, looking for tips on how to dress and make up.

Sis seemed to accept me and my "hobby," or at least she got used to it, or

maybe it amused her, and after a while she started taking me shopping with

her. She took me to the places that had the best selections and would make

recommendations. Sometimes I told her what I liked, and she would either

buy it for me or would suggest something better. My favorites were sexy

black: black panties with a lot of lace, a black garter belt, and black

hose. I liked pantyhose, too, which I found wonderfully comfortable as

well as sexy, although to me there was still nothing sexier than panties

and a garter belt. I got a couple of bras, too, including a black one to

go with my other black things, but I didn't always wear bras. It felt

funny unless the cups were properly filled out; stuffing them with hand-

kerchiefs didn't feel right, and proper breast forms were too expensive.

(I was out of college and working before I got myself a pair of boobs.)

But when we shopped, Sis kept the things we had selected and wouldn't pass

them on to me until I had modelled them for her friends.

Then their interest began to flag. One week, I wasn't summoned. The next

week Sis bought me a pair of stockings and just gave them to me: "Here,

Eddie. Gotta run." A couple of weeks later, our folks were away on a

weekend trip. I had known they would be gone, and I had something in mind.

Sis and her friends had never put perfume on me; but now with my folks away

and with a whole weekend for the scent to dissipate, I wanted to try it.

It was the only thing missing in my complete feminization, I thought, and I

craved it. Came Friday night, when Sis and her friends had their regular

get-together, and again I wasn't asked to come and dress up for them.

I heard them laughing and talking, just as I always did, and I was thinking

about that perfume. It was a month since they had dressed me. I was also

thinking, as I did so often, about how it felt to be dressed up as a girl,

and to have them see me that way and stare at me and my head began to swim,

as it always did at the prospect of dressing up. This time it was intense;

my thoughts were in a whirl and for a minute I wondered whether I was going

to faint. I suddenly knew what I was going to do. Like a man in a trance,

I walked slowly and uncertainly to my sister's room and knocked. Sis

opened the door; they all looked at me; and there was a dead silence.

Into the silence, I said, in a small voice,

"Please. Would you dress me up?"

The silence got longer and I could hear my heart pounding. That was the

first time I actually approached them and *asked* to be dressed up. They

knew by this time that I didn't mind it--that I enjoyed it, in fact; they

knew that Sis bought things for me. But they were shocked to hear me beg.

Anne looked up at me from where she was sitting and considered me. "You're

really into this, aren't you?" she said.

"Yes."

But they humored me. They got out a black party dress, all ruffles and

lace, with black stockings and a black slip. They felt as good as they

looked. When they were about to apply my makeup, I waved them away, sat

down at Sis's vanity, and started putting on my own makeup.

"You look as if you've had practice," Betty said.

"I have," I said. "I practice every chance I can get." Another stunned

silence.

It was the whole works; the only thing that had ever been missing was

cologne. Sis's shoes didn't fit my big feet, but I borrowed a pair of

Mom's heels and tottered about in them. And I wanted to wear Sis's Arpege.

"You're going to smell of it all weekend," Sis objected.

"Okay. I'm not going anywhere," I said. "Mom and Dad are gone, baseball

season is over, and I can spend the weekend at home studying. In fact,

I have to; I have a big exam coming up. That's why I want to try wearing

cologne now."

So Sis dropped her objections and I got my wish: complete feminization, or

what seemed like it, for an all-too-short hour. They even put a pair of

clip-on earrings on me, and a necklace. After I had dabbed on the Arpege,

I stood up, my arms over my head, and spun on my toes, making my dress

swirl around me. Sue stared at me.

"What a transformation!" she said. "He's all girl now!"

On an impulse I grabbed her and kissed her. "All girl"! Nobody had ever

said that about me before, and I knew I was going to live off that phrase

for the next week.

But after we had had our fun, Anne drew me aside and said,

"Did we start this? You wanted this to happen to-night; is this because of

what we did to you?"

"You mean, making me dress up? No. I was...wearing Sis's panties for a

couple of years before...before this started."

"You mean that that first time when you struggled like mad and we had to

hold you down, you were *faking?*"

"Well, er, it was...well, more exciting, being forced."

"You devious little snip! But I'm worried about you. Panties I can see;

even nylons. I've heard that there are men who wear those things. But

dresses...! Do you like it when we put you in a dress, too?"

"Yes. I love it."

"Oh, dear.... Well, with your long hair, you certainly look convincing.

But don't *ever* go out like that! Your face will pass, at your age, and

maybe even your legs, but your hands are a boy's hands, and you can't

disguise them. And you may look like a girl, all dressed up, but you don't

act like one."

It had been a splendid finale, that evening, and a finale was what it was;

that was the last time I ever dressed for them. They had lost interest, as

I might have expected; but by some miracle they kept my secret and didn't

blab it to all the other girls at school, which had been my worst fear.

I'm still grateful to them for that.

Even more remarkably, Sis kept up her side of the bargain all the way

through high school. She kept me supplied with stockings, and the occa-

sional pair of panties and bra; but she would also set aside her old

dresses and give me permission to wear them. And when she went away to

college, the last thing she did before she left was to lay in a stock of

things for me so I wouldn't have to shop for them myself--mostly panties,

stockings, and pantyhose.

"I assume you're going to keep this up, Eddie," she said. "If so, then

eventually you're going to have to start buying these things yourself. But

not around here where they'll recognize you. These should keep you going

for a while. If you run out of hose, write me and I'll send you some.

And, for God's sake, don't ever go outside wearing my things!" Now, years

later, this acceptance and help still amaze me.

In high school we had gym classes only every other day. On gym days, and

when I was out for sports, I wore regular boy's underwear, but on the other

days, and on most weekends, I wore panties under my other clothes. And

when I came home from school in the afternoon, I could usually get in an

hour or so of crossdressing before my folks came home.

It was still exciting, and my heart always beat faster when I realized that

it was time to dress up, but I also began to find it relaxing. I didn't

always masturbate when I dressed; sometimes I just sat around and read my

sister's magazines or did my homework. I was getting to think of panties

and dresses as a way of relaxing, of unwinding at the end of the school

day; I would change into a dress the way other boys might change into

casual wear.

When I got to college, everything changed. I had two roommates my first

two years, and I didn't dare let them know about my crossdressing,

especially because I was still the macho guy, active in athletics, and I

didn't dare let them find out that one of their tough teammates liked to

run around in girls' things. I was nervous about the whole business, and

even cut my hair short. As it happened, we were all open and easy about

jerking off, and once we all had a circle jerk together. (We felt that was

kid stuff, however, and we never did that again.) But jerking off was one

thing--everybody did that--and wearing dresses was something else.

After a while, the tension and frustration of always having to wear men's

clothes, and even men's underwear, got to me, and finally I brought a

couple of pairs of panties from home. (I had always kept my things in

Sis's room, so if my parents saw them, they would just assume they were

hers. I just left them there when I went away to school.) On days when I

didn't have to do athletics, I would get all dressed in the morning, stuff

a pair of panties in my trouser pocket, and then change into them in the

john. That provided some relief. Then in the evening, some time before

bed, I would go back to the john and reverse the process, so that when I

got ready for bed my roommates would see me taking off jockey shorts.

In the Fall of my sophomore year I had a real lucky break: I went with a

girl to a costume party at Hallowe'en. Naturally, I thought of going as

a girl but didn't dare suggest it. But Nancy thought of it, too.

"Why don't we go as each other?" she asked as we were discussing what to

wear.

My heart leaped up. But this was dangerous territory. "I don't think that

would be a good idea," I objected.

"Oh, come on. You're an athlete; nobody is going to, well, get ideas."

So I gave in, to all appearances reluctantly. And she gave me the whole

treatment, as thoroughly as my sister and her friends ever had, and then

some: girl's clothes, makeup--and cologne--and even a wig which we rented

for the occasion. What an experience!--and blessings on whoever invented

Hallowe'en, giving poor TVs like me the perfect, absolutely acceptable

excuse for not only dressing up as girls but actually going out of doors

and to parties dressed that way!

Nancy chose the clothes for me.

"This is a party, and I think you should wear black underthings." Black!

...my favorite color! "Here...black panties, and here's a black bra to

go with them. Do you need help fastening the bra?" She winked at me.

"You've had enough experience *un*fastening them!"

Bra and panties were familiar and well loved by this time, but I felt funny

wearing them in front of my best girl.

"Now, I think you'll find pantyhose more manageable. A garter belt is

kind of a nuisance if you're not used to it."

("Not used to it"...!) I wasn't used to wearing panties under pantyhose,

but I certainly was used to garter belts.

"Here; these are brand new--jet black sheer-to-the-waist. I got the

largest size I could find; I hope they'll be long enough."

I could have told her, if I dared, exactly what size, style, and make were

right for me.

"Now, you like this blue dress of mine so much. Let's see if we can get

you into it.... Well! You certainly got that on quickly and easily,

didn't you! Even the zipper on the side...just as if you had been doing

it all your life!

"...There. My!...you look so *natural* and comfortable! That blue really

goes well with your complexion. And your legs! Pull up the skirt a bit

and let me see...no, don't be silly! I just want to look at your legs.

Gee, they really look great in hose!"

I wished I dared tell her how good my legs *felt* in them. I hadn't worn

any pantyhose since the end of Summer vacation (and not often then, because

of the heat), and I missed them. I let Nancy apply my makeup, however,

because it would have been fatal if she saw how experienced I was at doing

it myself.

The party itself was a dream, especially because with the wig and makeup I

was really passing as a girl. I was a little nervous when a couple of guys

tried to hit on me, but I laughed to see the looks on their faces when I

answered them in what was obviously a man's voice. I had never been out en

femme before, and what a delight it was to be in a dress, to be seen in a

dress, and to have people accept me that way and think it was okay! I

wished the party would never end.

I had a bigger break the following Spring. I found out about a cross-

dressers' bar known as Lucy's. I hadn't known such places existed. After

a long time hesitating and getting up my courage, I went there. (I worried

about what I would do if the place was raided, but I later concluded that

the cops were probably too concerned about drug dealing to worry about drag

bars.) I didn't go dressed, however, because I didn't have a thing to

wear, and because I didn't know where I could change.

But there were some other college guys there who also weren't dressed but

who knew as well as I did what kind of place this was. (Nobody I knew, to

my mingled relief and disappointment.) And what a wonderful experience, to

know I wasn't alone, that I wasn't some kind of alien creature, that there

were other guys, not so different from myself, who crossdressed.

The place was about half full when I got there. At the bar there were

still a few empty spaces; one guy about my age was wearing black tights

with white shoes under white shorts and a white blouse. I sat down next

to him--and regretted it immediately: would he think I was trying to pick

him up?

Well, I could correct that notion if it was necessary; in the mean time,

take the initiative and go for broke. I ordered a Coke and then asked him,

"Do you have a light?"

He had. Then he said,

"I haven't seen you here before. Is this your first time?"

"Yes."

"And you know what kind of place this is?" (How could I help knowing?)

"Yes." I grew bolder. "I didn't come wearing...anything special...because

I couldn't wear it on the street."

"You can always change in the john. That's what most of the girls do. Of

course, the johns get pretty busy near closing time, when we change back.

Some guys even have to use the men's room." He grinned. "Have you been

into this for long? I'm Phil, by the way...Phyllis, if you prefer." He

smiled.

"I'm Eddie, er, Edie.... Yes, since I was eleven. But I can't, um, dress

in my dorm." I suddenly remembered my fear of being thought gay. I added,

"The only time I was able to dress at school was last Hallowe'en. I have a

girl," I said, with emphasis, "and I let her talk me into it."

"You have a girl. How many TVs have you known?"

"Nobody but me."

"Well, I suppose that's why you had to drag your girl into the conversa-

tion. If you didn't know before, you know now: most TVs aren't gay."

It's a measure of how little I knew, after half a dozen years of wearing

panties and dresses, that this was news to me. It was a relief, too; I had

never been attracted to men, but in the back of my mind there had always

been a secret worry: I wore girls' clothes; was I secretly gay? The relief

must have shown in my face.

"You were worried, weren't you?"

"Yes. I didn't know anything about...what I did."

"And you never thought to read up about it. There are studies, you know.

They're kind of, well, clinical, but you can learn from them."

"That never crossed my mind."

Once that was out of the way, we got into a long session of girl talk,

really comfortable girl talk, the kind only two guys who are into cross-

dressing can enjoy, comparing our backgrounds and experiences, telling each

other how we got started and what we wore. It was so pleasant being with

another guy with whom you could talk about lipstick shades or about things

like control tops, demi bras, or cinchers, a guy who knew the terminology

and was at home with it. We discussed how and where we found things to

wear. I told him about my sister.

"You mean your sister actually buys things for you? She doesn't mind?"

So I explained about the deal we had made.

"Wow! I never actually met a girl whose sister bought her drag for her.

And she takes you shopping...! I've heard lots of stories--you know, like

kids whose mothers put them in panties--but those are just stories. I've

never known anybody like that. Your sister...!"

"Well, what do you do?"

"I buy my things."

"Where?"

"In stores, silly! Any department store is full of women's things."

I was dumbfounded. "You mean you just go into stores and *ask* for things?

Don't they wonder why you're doing it? Aren't they suspicious?"

"What do I care whether they're suspicious?" he said. "I want them, I'm

buying them, I'm paying for them, and my money is as green as any other

girl's money." It had never occurred to me to look at it that way, and as

a matter of fact I was out of college before I ever got up the nerve to

shop for myself.

I ran into Phil a couple of other times after that, and through him I

gradually got to know a larger circle of acquaintances at Lucy's and was

accepted by them. There was one older man who always came there dressed

instead of changing in the john, and sometimes he would invite us to come

over to his house. This was in the days before men wore earrings, and Max

was the first man I ever met who had pierced ears. We would meet at Max's

and change, usually into our own things that we brought along, but some-

times into dresses from his collection. Then we would all pile into his

car and ride to Lucy's en femme.

Sometimes we had drag parties at Max's. Wearing Max's things was a real

treat, because he had an enormous collection and we could try on things we

never would have bought for ourselves; in particular, he had a couple of

pairs of breast forms, and I was able to wear a bra properly when we were

at his place. How good that felt! And the first and only time I ever wore

a strapless evening gown was at Max's place. Most of us were amateurs at

applying makeup, too, and Max gave us valuable instruction in that as well.

I had gotten very good at it over the years, but Max showed us things even

I hadn't known, and that I don't think even my sister knew.

His place must have looked funny with half a dozen men in dresses and sexy

makeup showing off their legs, doing their fingernails, and practising

walking in heels, but it took me no more than about a thousandth of a

second to get used to it and feel right at home.

I spent more time at Lucy's than I should have, but, thinking back, I'm

glad I did. It was therapy--the best kind of therapy, the kind that comes

of knowing you're not alone.

It was also beneficial because before the Spring term was over I met a

congenial roommate for the Fall. He was a sophomore, as I was, and in

fact we had seen each other in one of our classes. We agreed to share an

apartment in the Fall, which was great, because we would both be able to

wear dresses evenings.

There were a few girls--I mean, female girls--who came to Lucy's, too.

They just happened to like TVs for various reasons; Max used to call them

"Drag hags." This was another good thing for me, because it meant that I

might meet girls there, girls who knew I crossdressed and accepted it. I

had never told Nancy I dressed and had been terrified that time when she

commented on my facility in putting on her clothes. I had wondered what

I would ever do about getting married; I didn't know how I could tell some

girl I was romantically involved with about dressing; it seemed to me she

would have to know that from the start. It was clear to me that I would

have to find a wife at Lucy's, or at some other place like it.

One of these girls was into feminizing and dominating men. We had a brief

fling, because when she took me home and made me put on girls' clothes, it

reminded me of my exciting experiences at the hands of Sis and her friends.

But it didn't work out very well. In her case, she was into forced

feminization, and I was too enthusiastic for her; she wanted an unwilling

victim, not an eager girl-boy like me. And in my case I objected to being

bossed around. That wasn't what sex and crossdressing meant to me.

Oh...okay, you're going to want to hear more about her, aren't you? Well

...she had an enormous collection of women's lingerie, including some

things I had never seen before, even at Max's. She would select something

and make me wear it, something different each time, and sometimes two or

more different ones over the course of an evening. She would call me girl

and darling, or whore and slut, depending on her mood. She used to take

pictures of me dressed. I wish I had those pictures now, just as I wish I

had pictures from those early years with Sis and her friends. Most of the

sex was plain vanilla, or what passes for vanilla these days in our liber-

ated culture. Once she had me put a dress on over the sexy lingerie and

made me go out to a restaurant with her. I didn't like that at all; I

think I was still reasonably passable, but I remembered Anne's warning

about my hands and was self-conscious and anxious all the time. Maybe

that's what she wanted.

Well...that's my story: how I got started and some of what happened to me.

The rest is an anticlimax. I'm happily married now, and father to a boy

who is the same sort of young tough that I was but--as far as I know--isn't

the least bit interested in girls' clothes. (Although I've snooped in his

room occasionally, wondering whether I might find a bit of lace...!) I

still dress at home and wear panties under my business suit at work. My

wife likes the way I look in dresses; she shops for me, except when we

go shopping together, just as I used to with Sis. I told you that I had

expected to meet a wife among the drag hags at some place like Lucy's, but

in fact I met her through one of my sister's friends--through one of the

girls who used to watch me in my one-man fashion shows! Life is strange

...but good.

Princess Pervette

August, 1996

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