On Strike!
by Nom de Plume  © 2004

I got the idea while listening to the news on the radio, during another grinding commute home from the big city. It seemed a couple in Florida had gotten so sick and tired of their spoiled, neglectful children that they were camping outside their house in beach chairs, refusing to go back to being parents until their brats knuckled under.

Why couldn’t I go on strike from being the breadwinner? My lazy wife did nothing but loll around the house all day watching TV, and my teenage daughter cared only about clothes, her social life and her revolting boyfriend. I couldn’t recall the last time one of them had a conversation with me that didn’t end up with their hands in my pocket. Maybe I could teach them a lesson before they sent me into an early grave. Why couldn’t I go on strike from being a man?

* * *

There is something about me that you should know: ever since I was a little boy, I have been fascinated by women’s clothing. I used to sneak into my sister’s room and try on her skirts and dresses when I was home alone, until my legs sprouted hair and my feet outgrew her shoes. For years afterwards, I suppressed my desires, furtively surfing the web for kindred souls who shared my obsession. When my job required me to start traveling out of town, I painstakingly acquired a complete woman’s wardrobe, which I would wear in my hotel rooms into the wee hours of the night. Dolled up in a wig, makeup and other feminine paraphernalia, I would lose myself in chat rooms, pretending to be a woman until I exploded into my panties. I concealed all this from my wife, who was too self-absorbed to have a clue. When she lost all interest in sex soon after the birth of our daughter, my computer sessions as a virtual woman became the only outlet for my frustration.

Still, I would never have dared to expose my secret life to my family had it not been for the events that evening. When I finally crawled off the freeway and made it through the door, I was greeted with "You're late" from the wife, who didn’t bother to look up from her magazine. She was spread out on the living room sofa, cuddled up next to a bag of Doritos in her bulging stretchpants.

"Traffic was terrible."

"Well, it's too late for you to expect me to cook dinner." Newsflash! When was the last time the woman cooked anything? What she meant was, she was too lazy to drag her fat ass into the kitchen to throw something into the microwave. "You'll have to go pick up some takeout."

Too tired to protest, I was about to ask her whether she wanted pizza or Chinese when the daughter came into the room. Her pierced navel was prominently displayed between her belly shirt and low-cut jeans. "I need the keys to the Acura," she said impatiently.

"Take your father’s car."

"No way! You can't expect me to be seen in that piecer!”

"I don't blame you," the wife said. "It's embarrassing to be seen in that heap, but we’re lucky to afford one decent car on your father’s salary.” She swiveled her guns back onto me. “Why don't you give her your keys, and you can take my car to pick up dinner. And while you're at it, you can pick up some groceries that we'll need for the weekend. My mother is coming to visit for a few days."

I knew what that meant. The last time her mother decided to visit for a few days, she camped out in our spare room for a month. "I'm just beat," I protested. "Can't you go to the store tomorrow ?"

"I have tennis tomorrow morning, and then I have to get my hair done."

"Daddy, the keys? Now?" No pleasantries, no please, just give me the keys.

I handed them to the daughter, who disappeared instantly. "When does your mother get here," I asked the wife.

"Saturday afternoon. You'll need to get all of your junk out of her room." By her room, she meant my den, and by my junk, she meant a project I was working on for the office. I started to protest, but she was just winding up. "Try to do it tomorrow night when you get home. I have a long list of jobs for you to take care of on Saturday morning."

“I thought I’d go to the game on Saturday morning.” My favorite team was coming to town, and I had been looking forward to it all week.

“If you think I’m going to sit around here on Saturday while you’re off at a game, you’ve got another think coming!” I retreated into our bedroom and threw my suit jacket down on the bed. "Pick that up," the wife said as she followed me into the room. "And don't put on those bum clothes that you wear around the house. You might run into someone we know at the supermarket." I tried to ignore her as I changed, but she was relentless. "Did you ask for a raise today?"

"No." Things were tough at the company, a reality which I had kept from my family, not wanting to worry them.

"What a wimp," she sighed. I tried to escape into the bathroom, but she was all over me.

“Don’t make a mess in there like usual. The housekeeper complained so much about you today, I had to give her a raise. And don’t forget to put the seat down. Men!”

At the sound of that word, I finally snapped. The twisted idea that had come into my head during my commute suddenly didn’t sound so crazy. Maybe our lives would never be the same, but anything would be better than the life I was living. I had some comp time coming from the office, and tomorrow the wife and daughter would be out most of the day. When they got home, we’d see how they got by without a man around the house.

I surveyed my sad reflection in the mirror above the vanity. My hair was thinning and prematurely gray, but when I put on my woman’s wig, I looked years younger. When I dressed on the sly, I relied on female impersonators’ tricks to cover up my body hair, but now I finally had an excuse to shave my legs. My weight was up a few pounds, but a one-night fast would give me a girlish figure that the wife could only dream about.

Emboldened by my plan, I tore off my clothes and walked out of the bathroom naked. The wife watched with an evil eye as I put on my pajamas and pulled back the covers. “What are you doing? What about our dinner?”

“I’m not hungry, and I’m going to bed.”

“What about me?”

“You could stand to lose a few pounds. Why don’t you skip a meal for once in your life?”

She stormed out of the bedroom and slammed the door.

* * *

The next morning, I slipped out of the house for a five mile run through the suburban streets that were my family’s sanctuary. I would have much preferred to live in the city, but I had resigned myself to the daily grind of a two-hour commute to afford them the life they desired. Any second-thoughts about my plan of action disappeared as I pounded out the miles. If they weren’t going to appreciate the sacrifices I made for them, they’d better get used to me for who I was. By the time I got home, the daughter had already left for school, and the wife was waiting for me in her tennis whites, looking obscenely ridiculous. “You’re going to be late for work,” she sputtered.

“And good morning to you, dear. It’s a beautiful day outside.”

“Don’t get smart with me! I’m not talking to you after your little stunt last night.”

“Works for me,” I said with a smile as I poured myself a bowl of her Special K with skim milk. She stormed out of the kitchen, only to return a few seconds later with her shopping list.

“Are you going to work today?”

“Maybe.”

“Make sure you get to the supermarket, and don’t forget to clear out my mother’s room.”

“When will you get home?”

“I’m having lunch with the girls after I get my hair done.”

Perfect. The daughter didn’t get out of school until three o’clock, and the wife had never finished a ladies lunch in less than three hours. All the time I needed.

“Are you going to work today, or not?” she persisted.

“I thought you weren’t talking to me.”

Before she could take my head off, one of her tennis mates rang the doorbell, and she drove off in a huff.

Alone at last! After calling my office to tell them I wouldn’t be in until Monday, I went into the garage to retrieve my secret stash of women’s clothing, which I kept in a locked suitcase under a box of tools. The first thing I did was to put all of my unmentionables and tops into the minibasket in the washing machine. I stuffed my stockings into a hosiery bag and threw them in, too. After setting the washer on delicate and adding some detergent, I got out the ironing board and took my time smoothing out the wrinkles in my skirts and dresses. As I busied myself with these essential tasks, I felt my excitement building with what lay ahead.

While I was waiting for the washer to finish, I spread out my makeup on the bathroom vanity and poured some of the wife’s expensive moisturizing beads into the tub, which I filled with steaming hot water. Back to the laundry room to move my clothes into the dryer, then into the tub with a handful of disposable razors.

I swore I could hear drum rolls as I took that first fateful swipe. It was almost magical, watching the hair disappear from my legs, which gradually became sleek and delicate. When they were both finished, I lay back in the tub, pointed my toes and kicked my legs excitedly, reveling in my newfound femininity.

I took another razor to my arms and chest, which soon were smooth as a baby’s. My underarms were the last to go, and when I was through, I could hardly wait to get out of the tub. It was almost like I had a whole new body, and I was dying to try it on for size. I nearly forgot to shave my face, which I did with extra care before patting myself dry.

I wrapped the towel around my head and smoothed the wife’s expensive moisturizer over my tender limbs. After wrapping another towel around my trembling body, I returned to the laundry room, hung up my tops next to my dresses and skirts, and returned to the bathroom with my wig and lingerie. I took my time brushing out my wig before removing my turban and tugging it onto my head. More work with the brush and a little hairspray, and I was ready for my makeup. Moisturizer, foundation, eyeliner, shadow, eyebrow pencil, pressed powder, mascara, blush — everything went on effortlessly after years of practice.

When I was satisfied with the end result, I removed the towel from around my chest and fished my wonder bra out of the pile of freshly laundered lingerie. It smelled so clean and sweet as I fastened it behind my back and inserted the cookies into the cups. My heart was pounding as I tucked myself between my legs and stepped into a matching pair of panties. This was the moment I had been waiting for: all my previous crossdressing had been with a hairy body, masked by multiple layers of tights and long sweaters. For the first time, I was about to see myself as a woman in her bra and panties. When I stepped in front of the full length mirror and stared back at myself, it was love at first sight. From my shoulder-length hair to my smooth legs, I was all girl.

Lipstick and nylons: those were the twin badges of femininity which I had always yearned to put on while looking like this. My hands were shaking when I selected a pair of nude pantyhose from my hosiery bag, and although I had long imagined what it must feel like to wear stockings over freshly shaved legs, nothing could have prepared me for the sensations which I experienced that morning. Seeing my toes encased in nylon for the first time as I eased the delicate fabric up my feet and ankles was a life-altering experience, which only intensified as I slowly slid the delicious stockings up my calves and over my knees. When I finally pulled my pantyhose up to my waist, I felt my silky legs brush together as I walked back to the mirror to see if this was really happening. Almost in a trance, I took out my lipstick and watched the girl in the mirror, wearing only her panties, bra and stockings, apply a coat of pink to her pouting lips, her long lashes fluttering over smoky eyes.

When I finished lingering over my lipstick, I took a white, lacy slip and stepped into it, slowly pulling it up over my panties and bra and smoothing it into place. The feeling of cool nylon against my smooth body was electrifying, and my pulse was racing as I pulled a chair in front of the mirror and sat down to watch myself polish my nails. The girl in the mirror carefully began to apply coral polish to her eager fingers, crossing her silky legs under the lacy hem of her slip. When I saw my slip sliding up my stockings, the sights and sensations were suddenly too much for me, and although my penis was soft and tucked between my legs, I was overwhelmed my a sweet, exquisite glow that spread all the way down to my toes. The spell was broken only when I realized that my nice clean panties were flooded with a sticky souvenir of my former self.

If anything, my orgasm seemed to reinforce my newfound femininity. Relieved of my sex drive, I felt serene and relaxed as I finished polishing my nails. There was a momentary distraction while I peeled off my soiled panties and hose and wiped myself clean, then I was putting on a fresh pair of panties and enjoying the experience of easing a new pair of pantyhose up my lustrous legs. I no longer felt like a man putting on women’s clothing. I felt like a woman.

Which outfit should I wear today? I decided to show off my arms and legs with a short sleeved top that I had only been able to wear under sweaters, and a knee-length jumper. I was careful not to muss my hair when I dropped my top over my head, and I appraised my reflection with a critical eye while I tied the strings behind my jumper into a bow which snugged the dress against my pert breasts and slim hips. I had a coltish figure accentuated by nicely shaped legs, and on a whim I pulled my hair back into a ponytail with one of the wife’s scrunchies, giving me an All American Girl look. I stepped into a pair of skimmer flats, clipped on my earrings, and returned to the bedroom to accessorize my outfit with scarves and jewelry from the wife’s extensive collection.

Taking off my wedding ring was like crossing the Rubicon. I reminded myself that I had paid for the bracelet, necklace and wristwatch that I selected, and they looked infinitely better on me than they did on her. With that liberating thought, I tied a Gucci scarf around my neck and treated myself to a generous spritz of her most expensive cologne. From that moment on, I was on strike from being a man. The question was, would I ever be able to go back?

* * *

Our front yard has an old elm tree with a long, graceful swing that I built for the daughter in happier times. Shortly before three o’clock, with a straw bonnet tied under my chin, I took up my position and started swinging, gradually going higher and higher as I pumped my legs gaily back and forth. In addition to my new bonnet, the fruits of my shopping excursion that morning were on display in the front yard: a large banner was draped across the front of the house, with the words “HUSBAND ON STRIKE” emblazoned in bold red letters, and a refreshment stand and chairs were lined up by the sidewalk. A few well-placed calls to the media had produced the desired result, and two satellite vans with minicam crews were taking up position on either side of my swing when the wife pulled into the driveway.

I watched from on high as she got out of the car in her ridiculous tennis costume and fought her way past the growing throng, pushing and shoving as she went. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw her husband swinging back and forth, his dress fluttering around his knees. When she read the banner, it slowly dawned on her, and she started in on me in a blind fury. “What is the meaning of this?” she roared.

“I’m on strike,” I said in a girlish voice just loud enough for the news cameras to pick up.

“You get down from there, right now!”

“Can’t make me,” I pouted.

“Why are you on strike?” one of the newsmen asked.

“Cause I’m tired of not getting any respect for being the man of the house. Let her try wearing the pants around here for a change.”

“Get down here this minute!” the wife screamed. “What will the neighbors say?”

“I think he’s adorable,” the woman from next door chimed in.

“What are your demands?” the newsman asked.

“Three things: first, I get to go to the football game tomorrow. Second, if my mother-in-law stays more than two days, she moves into a hotel. And third,” I said to the wife, “you go on a diet until you can fit into one of my dresses.”

With that, the wife snapped completely. She fought her way back into her car and started backing down the driveway, scattering neighbors and news crews like bowling pins as she went. Fortunately, none of them were seriously injured, but unfortunately she was heard screaming “white trash” on national television as she mowed them down. The cameras caught it all as she was cuffed by the police and taken away. They say she will be out in three to five years with good behavior.

Her sensational performance was all the media needed to turn my strike into a publicity bonanza. Book and movie deals poured in, and I’m seriously considering a move to the coast. I’m going to have to wrap this up, because Matt Lauer is holding, Fox News is on the other line, and I have to get ready for a photo shoot with People magazine.

As for the daughter, it’s the darndest thing, but once she realized one of her parents was a national celebrity, we became the best of friends. She thinks my clothes are lame, and I’m not wild about hers, but we’re both coming around.

From the author of The Jessica Project and Skylord
http://snurl.com/jessicaproject
http://snurl.com/skylord