Monday, March 5, 2007

The Making if a Nancy Boy - Part 2

** These picture are not of me. Mine will be added asap.

It just wasn't enough.

I loved looking at myself in the mirror (especially in shopping malls) to see a feminine image that I found attractive; that turned me on, but then to experience the shame that came with recognising that the apparition before me was me - a boy - dressed in girls clothes, in a public place and every body could see what I was.

My craving for embarrassment; degradation; humiliation became greater and greater.
I was after absolute debasement in front of as many people as possible. I was a pathetic little transvestite ; a faggot; a pansy I wanted everybody to see me as that. I needed to be laughed at; looked down at; derided.

But as with a drug addiction I needed a bigger and bigger hit each time to have any effect.

One day, I went out wearing a pair of tight, slim fitting, womens' straight leg jeans, sheer and ultra shiny tan Wolford Neon 40 pantyhose, a pair of elegant tan slip on pumps with a 1/2 inch heel, my diamante ankle bracelet, a light woollen Wedgewood blue womens' pullover (sweater for those in the land of Uncle Sam) with a zip at the back of the neck, a silver wrist bracelet studded with diamantes, light pink nail polish, and light makeup and small diamond ear studs.

I drove to the Chatswood shopping centre in Sydney's north. No matter how many times I had done this, I always had my heart in my mouth as my exposed stocking encased ankles shimmered in the sun light as they swung out of the car and as my tiny. slender heels touched the concrete footpath.

Again, as I walked into the crowded shopping centre, my heels clicking audibly and my stockinged feet shining very obviously under the powerful shopping centre lights.

Everyone was looking/staring at ME! Not entirely - most were just so preoccupied with their own priorities to notice much else, but that's how it felt.

I went to Grace Brothers department store and found the Miss Shop, which catered to younger women and began to browse through the racks of clothes. So much I wanted, but on the limited income of a student, there was only so little I could afford.

I found a rack of designer denim cutoffs and began to look through them, I could see a group of three young sales girls in a mirror half looking my way, trying to look inconspicuous, but obviously discussing me.

They were quite attractive young ladies in their 20's but they were now aware I was transvestite; a sissy; a girly boy. I felt ashamed. I felt excited.

Eventually one of them, a tallish brunette, wearing black ski pants and red patent pumps (that was a very "in" look in those days came over and, with a polite smile, asked if I needed assistance.

Very nervously, I said that I was looking for some denim shorts. Diplomatically she asked whether they were for a gift, although it was abundantly obvious from my appearance and demeanour that they were not.

I swallowed hard.

"No"' I said, in a barely audible whisper.

I had done it. I had effectively said they were for me. I had told this attractive shop assistant that I was a transvestite (as if it wasn't loudly obvious form how I was dressed).

She stepped back and looked at me, as she said:

"That's fine. I think maybe size 12."

She selected 2 different styles from the rack and asked:

"Would you like to try them on?"

I was beside myself that I could go into a womens' charge room and try on girl clothes in the middle of a major Sydney department store.

"Is that OK? You don't mind?", I asked sheepishly.

"Of course it's OK. We don't get a lot of guys here, but you aren't the first or the only one", she said as she smiled reassuringly and showed me the way to the fitting rooms.

"She pulled the curtain to an empty compartment and said:

"Call out if you need any help."

After she pulled the curtain shut, I removed my jeans to reveal my shimmering pantyhose encased legs. I then pulled on one pair of denim shorts. They were loose and slightly longer than the others.

I removed them again and tried on another pair. These fitted very snugly and showed my stockinged legs off beautifully.

I slipped my shoes back on and admired the image in the mirror. I was so excited the image of myself that looked back at me in the mirror, I could not help but caress my stockinged legs and even my groin. And here I was, in a womens' fitting room in the middle of a crowded department store.

My introspection was suddenly interrupted.

"How are you going in there?", the sales girl asked from outside.

"Fine thanks", I stammered.

"I think these ones look OK."

May I see?", she asked.

I apprehensively pulled back the curtain. I stood before her, my stockinged legs , adorned with a diamante ankle bracelet, glistening in the light and very tastefully matched with an elegant pair of pointed Italian kitten heeled pumps, and a fashionable pair of skintight denim cutoffs.

The image from the ground up was one of a very sexy, fashionable young female with killer legs, ...... until you get to the upper torso and suddenly the shape becomes more male. A womens' pullover - no bra, no breasts. Just a flat male chest.

Then to the head - a pretty made up face with light mascara, pale blue eye shadow, a touch of blush and very light amber lipstick. But if the face didn't belie my gender, the short boys haircut did.

The sales assistant looked back at me with a warm smile and said:

"They fit you perfectly."

"And you have great legs. I bet most of the girls that come in here and try those shorts on would sell their souls to have legs like that."

At this stage I was blushing profusely.

I smiled meekly and stammered "thanks".

I felt flattered.

I felt embarrassed.

I felt excited.

All at once!

"I will take those, please I said.

"Do you want me to wrap them or do you want to wear them now?"

My face went even redder with embarrassment. The thought of wearing them out of the store was deliriously exciting. But did I have the courage.

"May I?"

"Of course", she replied.

"I'll place your jeans in a bag for you if you like."

I thanked her as i followed her out of the fitting room to the payment counter.

I was about to step out into the public area of the store. Until; now only the sales assistant had seen me dressed like this. Now the whole world was about to.

I had walked in dressed in a subtly but noticeably feminine way.

The way I was dressed now, just screamed out - transvestite; crossdresser; sissy. It was fashionable; stylish; sexy - but on a guy??????? It wasn't just noticeably effeminate. It just demanded attention.

I stepped out. There was no turning back now. I was fully clothe, but I felt kind of vulnerable - naked even.

My long slender legs, poised on a pair if short stilettos. Shimmering vividly in the high gloss pantyhose. The friction of my pantyhosed legs rubbing against each other as I walked.

The obvious stares from other shoppers.

It was sensory and emotional overload.

I felt afraid, excited, vulnerable, sexy, aroused, ashamed and humiliated - all at once. I wanted to disappear into an abyss, but I didn't want it to end. My face was radiant red as it burned with embarrassment.

To be continued

Tuesday, February 20, 2007

The Making of a nancy-boy. PART 1

I have been a transvestite since an early age.

I have gone though the typical phases of denial and the occasional purges. Originally it was avery private obsession. The thought of being seen by anyone dressed in womens's clothes was mortifying, but over time the urge to be seen dressed in womens' clothes became more and more compelling.

Originally costume parties provided a credible cover for dressing up publicly. But then I found a growing urge to go out fully dressed in broad daylight. I dressed as "normally" as I could. I sought to emulate a sexily elegant young, girl/woman my own age -sheer pantyhose, mid-thigh length skirt, matching blouse etc.( I will detail my first outing and the exhilaration of being out in the sunlight and in a crowded city store in sheer pantyhose, hot pants and suede boots, in a blog to be posted soon.) At that age I was quite passable. At first I thought the stares and smiles I attracted were because I had been read. I soon realised that they were mainly interested males who seemingly liked what they saw.

As time went on, going out in public and passing was not enough.

I was hooked on the danger, the shame the humiliation. I waned people to know I was a transvestite; a crossdresser; a faggot; a sissy; a nancy boy. I even quietly fantasized about being pointed at and being called such names in crowded public places.

After a short-lived marriage I began to regularly wear pantyhose or stockings with women's panties under my male clothes. Frequently, on weekends and at nights I would go out in public with my sheer , stockinged ankles showing under my trouser legs. I eventually added a diamante anklet.

Just walking around normally did not attract the attention I wanted. I bought myself some low cut loafers to show off more of my stockinged feet. I would sit my self in very public view in shopping centres and at bars so that my trousers would ride up to display my ankles and much of my calf.

With my heart in my mouth and my groin in a high state of agitation I would sit there with the light shimmering off my stockinged ankle and my anklet glimmering brightly as it delicately adorned my rather shapely ankle . It was quite a contrast to my otherwise masculine appearance. I started to get the second takes, the stares, and the smirks I craved. It was exhilarating, but I was prisoner to a very powerful urge to take more and more risk.

I came to add light pink nail polish and light eye make-up and lipstick. I would on occasion wear a bra that would be visible through a thin shirt or reveal a strap through the shoulder of a t-shirt.

I bought women's slacks which were more tapered to more elegantly allow a glimpse of ankle and many, delightfully zipped or buttoned up at the side or the back. I then progressed to adding some low-cut womens loafer or elegant pumps with 1/2 inch kitten heels that showed off the shimmering tan pantyhose that adorned my feet and toes.
What I aimed for was an androgynous balance that was stylish and elegant rather than comical or grotesque. In a rather strange incongruity, perhaps rather indicative of my own ambiguity, I wanted to be stared at and sniggered at but I also wanted people to think I was elegantly presented. I wanted them to be challenged by the incongruity of a boy/young man dressed in elegant female clothes that a young woman of his age would wear, rather than visually offended by some garish get-up that was not only effeminate, but would look ridiculous on anyone, regardless of gender. The idea was to have people privately admire my sartorial aesthetics, whilst at the same time have their gender sensibilities confronted by an obvious male, effeminately presented.

Overhearing the odd whisper - "Look! That guy's wearing stockings" or "He's wearing a bra" would cause me to blush with shame and vulnerability , yet also arouse feelings of excitement and delightful girliness.

But it wasn't enough ....

To be continued