Keeping “in the closet” brings stresses and strains that most of us bear with some difficulty. They are more difficult to bear in your Thirties than your Twenties, as it must be for women in general. Lost youth, spreading waistline, peaking libido, and “wishing for what might have been”….. So it was for me.

Chapter 22

My theme is of “First times….” So I shall not go into repetition of my dressing experiences which continued from my Twenties. It’s sufficient to say that I was limited — or rather I limited myself — to wearing the panties that I kept hidden away, the lipstick that I carried with me most of the time, and the hair and skin moisturizer products that hit me with their advertizing messages. I bought bras but then threw them away because they couldn’t be explained if found. I wore some of my wife’s clothes when she was out and about — her career having resumed no the children were older. The stress of putting the clothes back as though they hadn’t been moved was immense. Perhaps that was part of the thrill now — being discovered was a real risk…. But it was obviously worth taking because I took it at least once a week!

--oo00oo--

Thankfully, my career was becoming successful. I had reached Marketing Manager at the age of 32, Marketing Director at 34. I was required to go on occasional international trips which presented temptations of their own. This was the early 1980s when corporate liaisons were more and more common. But I resisted those. I met beautiful women and really enjoyed their company. Secretly I enjoyed their company very much more than my lecherous colleagues. Their objective of having a screw with as many as they could get their hands on was never in my mind. The possibility of taking home an STD most certainly was.

The closest I came to being seduced, quite literally, was in the arms of a young lady on my staff after whom I lusted but never dared to go after. She was in a very emotional state, having broken up with her no-good “shit of a man”. She had taken on too much booze — if she hadn’t why would she try to seduce her boss? (I naively thought!). I had dreamed of that moment…. Her arms round my neck, my hands in her hair, her tongue down my throat…… But I broke off like a scared cat! Leaving her there, in her room, I skedaddled and ran. What if I caught an STD? What if I found her blackmailing me? What if she saw I was wearing panties?

That was it.

I was wearing lovely lacey pink panties. Stretchy ones that hugged my body. Kept my cock in tightly. Not tucked, but tightly hidden away.

She would know something nobody knew at the company. What if she threatened to tell? No risks were worth taking like that. I would be branded as a pervert. She might brag that she had “had the boss”. Even if she didn’t blackmail me, she would eventually tell a mate of our encounter. And my panties.

Why didn’t I just go on and enjoy myself? The risks were totally hypothetical. Answer: Chicken!!

And I loved my wife and kids.

To this day, I have “kept myself to myself”. I have “kept my dick zipped”.

Surely, better that, than screwing around and worrying about hiding the consequences?

But the world doesn’t accept (or didn’t then, in the Eighties) that having a deep desire to dress in the clothes of the other sex to your own is acceptable. It’s now not the same as for other once-thought-of-as-perversions. Gradually, it seems, that having sex with someone of your own sex is not “abnormal”. That’s even taught in schools… even how to do it! I do resent that when there is no compassion or understanding (still less acceptance) that crossdressing isn’t “deviant” either. Perhaps the trouble is that there are so few of us, relative to the number of homosexual people, that we are put in the classification of “nutters”?

(Enough already….. Put away the soap box! Stop the campaign for now!)

--oo00oo–

Returning to my theme of “First times…”, there are a number of events that are difficult to place in a real time-line. Which came first.. the corset or the eyelashes? Wearing lipstick and freshening it up in the street, caring not who saw, or talking with a Lesbian about making love to a woman? Or dreaming of actually changing my gender, and then realizing that’s not what I want out of life.

The eyelashes came first — on another visit to a Transformation store — this time in Manchester. Out for a couple of days with an “accompany visit” with a member of the company’s Sales team, I stayed overnight at a budget hotel (one that I would re-visit, dressed, but more of that another time).

After work was over, I consulted my road map and drove to the suburbs of northern Manchester where the store was located. (I had seen a map in the leaflets in the London store). Later the same year, I would go back and have a Make-up & Change service and leave the shop fully dressed.

This time, for my first time — after trying to fit them myself more than a dozen times — I asked for a pair of false eyelashes to be applied…… I should have asked for under-lashes too but was quite so excited, I forgot! The lady who served me was happy to accept that I was going home to dress and go out but, as I had said, “just needed help with my eyes”. She made them up fully, with liquid eyeliner, shadow and mascara too. I left the store like a Drag Queen in “drab” (boy’s clothes).

Fluttering and flashing my eyes in all directions on the way back to the car, I found that these appendages made my eyes water! Not in tears, I looked like I was crying…. With the mascara streaming. I had no tissues in the care. “Shit!” I shouted to myself as I stepped in the car and looked in the driver’s mirror. Another of my less successful ventures, you might think and I would have to agree. I did have a subsequent visit and did have the lashes again, being taught how to manage the discomfort that girls feel with lashes batting away in their field of vision.

Makes me smile, every time I think of that curse when I got in that car. I looked like some diva who had her heart broken by some lover who’d left her.

I dreamt of Dusty, my darling, and all the years she would have spent with her eyes like a Panda’s — how I would have changed places with her! All those years ago, how in love I felt for her. And then, to find out, that she fancied other girls…. Just made me want to be her girlfriend for a while.

Forgive me, if you can……… Just read what follows:

I think I'm goin' back
To the things I learned so well in my youth
I think I'm returning to
Those days when I was young enough to know the truth
Now there are no games
To only pass the time
No more colouring books
No more trees to climb
But thinking young and growing older is no sin
And I can play the game of life to win

The corset? That came later! A consequence of a waistline that was growing and a growing curiosity about how it would feel to be severely constrained in something like that — something that had a bit of a Fifties/Sixties cache about it. Again, it was easy to find in what had become my favourite store. The ubiquitous Mr Marks and Mr Spencer’s emporium! As before, I cruised through the Ladies’ Fashions, past the blouses and the girly shirts, past the skirts both long and short, past the stockings and pantie hose, through the bras and camisoles and slips, ending up at the corsetry range, cunningly placed against the back wall, right next to the changing rooms.

A first thought was ridiculous. If I found the right corset, could I take it in there and try it on? Of course not. For one thing, the changing rooms were ‘communal’, meaning that ladies changed in open court, able to see eachother, for better or for worse. For another thing, the store was busy and people were coming and going. I had to buy what I thought was the right size and get home to try it on. I knew that a 36B bra would fit me but a 38B would be more comfortable. These came with a proportional-sized bum measurement; probably 40 inch in my case.

That was the simple part; then, did I need a long fitting? Probably yes. Did I want an integral bra or just a corset up to under the tits (which I didn’t possess). Or did I want a waist cincher? Did I want suspenders or garters attached? Did I want black? — probably, or did I want white?, or flesh coloured?, or pink? Did I want one with pantie legs or an open gusset? Lacey or not?

Tooo many choices!!!! There was a danger that I would be interrogated by a member of staff if I didn’t get on with making a choice…… I felt eyes drilling into the back of my head!

A 38B, long length, with bra integrated, with suspenders attached (came with 6), black…. Or, oh, no! flesh coloured, with an open gusset. With lace, not plain. Now, where would that be…??

“Can I help you?....” ….came the inevitable question. From a very attractive young woman of my own age. “….Can you see what you’re looking for?”

Struck dumb, like an average teenager, I mumbled….. nothing much, I just mumbled. Why hadn’t I prepared for this?!

“You’re looking at corselets, is that right?” “Yes, I am.” “Do you know your size?” She KNEW!
It was for me! She KNEW! “Er, well, actually… not really.”

Shit! I was embarrassed beyond belief! Would the floor open up and swallow me? Please, make it do so! Make me invisible. My cheeks must have been crimson.

“Well no worry… you do know about our returns policy, don’t you. You can bring an item back, so long as the protective lining is still in place, within 30 days. If a garment has been worn, it’s not returnable. Is that clear?”

“Yes, yes, of course. I think I need a 38B in a long size.”

“Well, good, that’s a start. Now a 38B, long length, ….with bra integrated?” “Yes, please.” “…. would that be with suspenders attached (it comes with six) or not?” “Er, well, … with…”
“And what colour? How about black…. or perhaps flesh coloured, after all, white’s a bit boring, isn’t it?” “Well I suppose so…. er, flesh coloured, with lace.”

“Good, now we’re getting somewhere… and lastly, what about pantie-legs or with an open gusset?” “Oh with the gusset please.”

I am amazed, just re-living the encounter, that I didn’t collapse with heart failure there and then. I had been SOLD a corselet by a young WOMAN, who clearly assessed me as a buyer for MYSELF — and she did not bat an eyelid, she just went on professionally doing her job. And she made the sale. Open questions; …either? or? No negative answers possible. I was hooked.

She reached out towards the end of the display and, sure enough, there was what we had “agreed” I wanted. “Oh, one final question: Firm control? or Natural?”

Cue for further embarrassment but an urgency came over me, “Which do you think? Which do most women want?” “I would recommend the Firm Control… no particular reason but I think, in your case……” “Sold.” I said and she turned away with a smile towards the central pay point across the store. I followed her, quite meekly. She was very good at her job. As I followed her, my eyes studied her form. She was what today we call “Mad Men style”; hour-glass figure, perfect legs, her shoes inside low-heeled court shoes, all crowned with medium-length copper hair in a swingy style that moved as she did. Sadly, I never saw her again.

Back in my home, clutching the bag containing this beautiful creation, I took ten deep breaths after closing my eyes. Heaven….. but where to hide the purchase?! Simple….. in the bottom drawer of my office desk in the spare room. Nobody would look there.

--oo00oo--

Wearing lipstick and freshening it up in the street, caring not who saw happened around the same time — though it’s difficult to place all these events in precise sequence. I was travelling on business - it happened to be to Newcastle-upon-Tyne in northern England. I was staying in a standard business style hotel, Dinner was not included and I went in search of “an Italian” — there’s a good Italian community in Newcastle so I wouldn’t be disappointed.

I had my corselet on, (so that says it was after the last ‘event’ in my story) but I didn’t have the tits padded. I had mastered (or should I say “mistressed”?) the way to get myself into the wonderful figure-hugging body shaper, but lacked the confidence to emphasize or accentuate my body. The closeness of the garment , all over, was just brilliant. Every move I made, every twist and turn, told me that it was one of the best decisions I had ever made — to buy such a thing.

The Italian meal was spectacular and the half bottle of Brunello made me feel very warm and content. I left the restaurant and traced my steps back to the hotel. Feeling the slim shape of my lipstick in my hand in a coat pocket, I drew it out and — on the street-lit sidewalk — applied the creamy concoction to my upper lips, shaping a Cupid’s bow, before running the beautiful product twice over the lower lips. I rolled my lips together to smooth the overall effect. I was ecstatic.

I briefly found myself dreaming of actually changing my gender, street-walking as I was, and being a whore. But then, realizing that’s not what I want out of life, I told myself, “you’re better than that!” So I headed back to the hotel, tasting the lipstick as I went. I crossed the reception area and aimed for a lowly-lit bar for a nightcap drink. Alone. In a city centre hotel bar. But my heart was beating fast again. My corselet gripped me with renewed fever. I wished I had tits to fill its cups.

Chapter 23 will come after Christmas, as it has yet to be written. In that, I shall deal with the occasion when I first found myself talking with a Lesbian about making love to a woman. God bless!