Tuesday, March 13, 2012

My First Confession

One of the things I want to do on this blog is confess the things I’ve done and the fantasies I’ve had. I’m not sure why, except maybe it’s all part of understanding this strange little hobby of mine? Who knows, maybe I’ll finally figure me out?

My crossdressing actually began with a fascination with high heels. This began when I was six. I remember playing in the living room of our house when my mother came home from work. It was the 1970s and she wore a pair of wedge-heeled sandals with red straps and tannish synthetic-rubber heels (kind of like the ones in the picture, but not really). She sat down on the couch and put her feet up on the coffeetable, with her legs crossed at the ankle. Suddenly, I just started staring at her shoes. For reasons I could not explain then and cannot explain to this day, I wanted to touch those shoes so badly. I had no thoughts about wearing them or doing anything sexual to them, I just wanted to touch them, to feel them in my hands. Later that night, I snuck into her closet and held them. I even tried them on, but they were too big for me and the moment passed. That was the beginning and I vividly remember that moment to this very day.

Anything you want to share?


Cordellian said...

Hi Ann Michelle. I'm really loving your Writer's Secret story. It's one of the best 'force fem' tales I've read in a longggg time! :)

Since you asked whether anyone wants to share 'confessions' of how they started, here's mine...

I suppose I began to realise I wasn’t quite like the other ‘boys’ when I hit puberty. Like everyone else I suddenly took an interest in girls for the first time and marvelled at the fact that I had never given them the time of day before. How could I have not noticed their long sleek hair, firm breasts and wonderfully curved waist and hips? They were suddenly all I could think about all day and every day. But while my friends longed to see girls naked, I actually rather enjoyed them with their clothes on. Not just any clothes of course, but deliciously feminine clothes. Skirts and dresses of course (it was always a slight turn off when they insisted on wearing masculine looking jeans and t-shirts. Why? Were they mad? It seemed to me like choosing a bottle of Blue Nun wine instead of a nice Pinot Noir) and preferably high heeled shoes, and make up to complete the look. After a while I began to recognise that it wasn’t just the women that I admired, but their choice of clothes. And actually… I’d rather like to wear the clothes too! Oh my God - I didn’t just want to be WITH a beautiful girl, I wanted to actually BE her as well.

Obviously I didn’t mention this to any of my friends as they leered at the centrefolds in Penthouse and Mayfair (sexy yes, but not as sexy as an expensive lingerie catalogue I’d caught sight of…) and boasted how much they’d like to ‘give her one’. I certainly didn’t mention it to my parents either, because I knew they would be horrified at the thought of me wanting to wear a dress.

Was I the only heterosexual boy who felt like this? It really felt like it at the time. Not really understanding much about this I assumed dressing up as a girl was something reserved for homosexuals. I knew I liked girls rather than boys, so why did I want to look like a girl as well? It didn’t really make sense to me. My first experience was a furtive and nervous search through my mum’s wardrobe when I was at home during the day revising for my exams and the house was conveniently empty. I remember pulling on a pair of tights and a dress, feeling giddy with excitement, but also scared that the front door might open at any moment. The tights in particular felt wonderful, and I couldn’t understand why every boy didn’t want to feel this way. How can anything that felt so good and didn't hurt anyone be bad? But afterwards I felt guilty at what I’d done. My upbringing had told me that this sort of thing was ‘wrong’ and I had yet to develop the sense of independence that would allow me to reject such ridiculous ‘moral’ standards. I was also terrified that my mum would somehow detect that her dress had been worn. Had I returned it to the same space in her wardrobe? Were there any tell tale creases from being worn? Would she somehow just know that her son had borrowed it? During my early teenage years my parents seemed to me to be omniscient. I pictured her opening the wardrobe, spotting something was amiss, and just knowing. A few more furtive dress up sessions followed until I decided it was just too risky and didn't dress up again until I'd left home. :)

- Emma R

Ann Michelle said...

Emma, Thank you, I'm glad you're enjoying the series.

Thank you also for sharing your own confession. I have had similar thoughts and experiences, especially the fear that my mother would spot something I had touched. And I suspect a great many more have shared these moments as well.