Prior Lives
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

I regained consciousness with McLennan’s voice in my ear. I looked around his office to get my bearings and noticed the clock on the wall – 4:30 – I had apparently been asleep for well over an hour.

“Well I have to say that it was most interesting”, he said, flipping over some notes in his hand. “And I can tell you that I have reached some conclusions and some possible solutions to your problems.”

My problems. I prided myself that I was a strong and independent person, but the truth is I have had anxiety issues all my life. I did a good job of hiding it. When I felt the tide coming over me I could call in sick, or even find a quiet place to cry and shiver. But more recently with promotion at work I had found the attacks becoming harder to hide, and to deal with.

The first psychologist I had visited prescribed drugs, but these just made me tired and empty-headed. McLennan was a psycho-therapist who promised a drug-free approach to treatment. I had heard he was a little “alternative” in his approach, but I was willing to try anything. Even his “regression therapy” was worth trying. I invited him to continue.

“You have recounted to me the memories of several distinct persons from past existences, in some detail. Now I know that you are skeptical about this, but I can tell you that the thoughts that you have a very real, at least to you. But the interesting fact is that they are all women. It would seem that in any prior life you were exclusively female. I have to say that I have not encountered this in a male subject before. Maybe one or two female lives, but never all of them. As a result, we have gone well over time, I’m afraid.”

“I’d love to hear the stories,” I said, “because it’s all new to me. I can assure you that I am 100% male. Always have been. I am just an average guy. Heterosexual. Keen on sports. Not particularly emotional. I can tell you, I have never had any conscious thoughts of a female kind. I am not sure what this means.”

“Now, there is no sense in objecting,” he said. “You appear entirely masculine to me. But what we are trying to do is look into your psyche. In my experience past lives, whatever their origin, shape the psyche, and relating to them almost always has a beneficial effect.”

He scrolled through his notes again. “I am going to suggest something,” he said. “I don’t want you to object to it or to reject it without thought, although it may seem a little odd. I have the opinion that you need to connect to this past feminine experience a little. I suggest that you try wearing women’s underwear for a few weeks.”

Well, I was gobsmacked. “You must be joking!” I said, or something similar. “I am not a fag!”

“I am not suggesting that you are,” said McLellan. “I am not suggesting that you make it visible. Some panties and a slip can be worn discretely. Only you would know. But it may be that this is exactly what is needed. You would know that you have reached out to your “feminine side” if you like. I am fairly sure that it will have positive effects for you.” Then, seeing the risible doubt in my face, he added “If it doesn’t, I’ll may waive my fee for today’s session.”

He checked his appointment book and said: “Come and see me in 4 weeks. The 18th. Make sure that you have been wearing something very feminine under your masculine clothing, every day. Tell me then if I can bill you for today. We can go through your memories then, if you like. As I said, we are well out of time to do that today. It was very interesting.”

Of course I thought the whole idea was ridiculous. It wasn’t until my next attack that evening, that I thought about it. And by lunchtime to following day I decided I would try anything. I found myself in the file room at work with my back against the door, shaking like a leaf. I barely had the energy to tell Rochelle at reception that I would be out for an hour.

I went to the ladies’ section at V&J the Department Store nearby, and decided to ask for help. “Something for my wife”, I lied. I am not married, and my last relationship had ended months ago.

“Does she like lace? Or perhaps floral patterns?”

“Something feminine”, I replied, recalling McLellan’s words. “Not a bra, just panties and a lingerie top thing.” I wanted something that would be sure not to show.

“I’ll think she’ll love this camisole and panty set,” said the assistant. She held up a pink garment trimmed with white lace and with tiny embroidered pink roses. Just looking at it made me feel better. I began to worry that McLellan was on to something. I had walked into the shop stressed and now all that stress was slipping away.

I bought it. I declined the gift wrapping and took it back to work in a plain bag before slipping it into my briefcase. The afternoon went in a whirl. No stress, and just the occasional thought of what was in my case.

When I got back to single room apartment I decided that I would see whether I could continue in the same vein. It was as if, if only I could avoid putting these things on my masculinity was assured. If I had to give in maybe I was on the slippery slope to transvestitism. It seemed to work. I made my meal, read some research papers, watched a little TV, and went to bed. The bag remained on the sideboard.

It was not until the morning attack that I retrieved the bag. Many mornings were like this. I simply did not want to even get out of bed. I had to drag myself to basin and the shower. Worries without form continued to gnaw at me. The question was not ‘would it work’ but ‘can I go to work without it’. I just didn’t want to put it on. But in the end, I did.

I took the panties out and snipped off the label. They were a fit, even a little too large, but the absence of space for my cock and balls made them look ridiculous. That and the hairy thighs on either side of the incongruous bulge. I slipped the camisole over my head and let it settle with the bottom just a little short of the panties. It looked better. My chest was not hairy and was pale enough to show the delicate colors. I was little concerned that the embroidery would show through, so I selected a heavier fabric business shirt to wear over it. With my pants on it was as McLellan said – nothing was visible.

I realized that I felt ready for work. Even on good days, since my promotion I had not felt like this. Could McLellan be right? Had I licked the problem?

It was put to the test within a few hours. I had to deal with a very angry client. Just a hint of doubt came into my head as I picked up the phone. But then I had a remarkable thought passed into my head: ‘he doesn’t know it, but I’m a girl dressed up as a man’. I smiled as I chirped a cheerful good morning. I hardly even thought about what he was saying, but I handled it with quiet ease. All the time I kept thinking was that I had tricked him into believing I was a man.

I know it sounds crazy, but that was the effect that the underwear had on me. It did work, and I knew then that I would be going back to McLellan in a few weeks’ time to tell him, and to pay him

After a couple of days, I knew that I would need a change of clothing. I decided not to go back to V&J, but I had the measurements and was able to buy two underwear sets from a specialty lingerie shop (again for my wife) this time, a size smaller to fit more snugly. I found this time that the fabric allowed less room, and I needed to push my penis back to get the right fit. I would need to work on a solution to that issue.

For some stupid reason one set I bought was in black. The apricot was a good choice, but the black was visible under all but a few of my shirts. Why black? It just seemed so feminine, but also womanly in a sexy way. It was simply not practical, but the black camisole was gorgeous. That is not a word I can recall using in my thoughts before.

When I first put on my black panties I realised just how grotesque my hairy thighs looked. I didn’t really intend shaving my entire legs – just cleaning the area on either side of the panties seemed somehow right. But when I took the razor to the task, it just happened. Both legs, top to bottom, groin to toe. I even had to stop myself from carrying on through my pubic hair, and maybe beyond. I just tidied that area up a little.

There is no doubt that women’s underwear looks much better over shaved legs. Especially my shaved legs. I realized that I really do have good legs – not scrawny but not heavily muscled. Just well shaped. I realized that I needed something to moisturize them with, to take away the shaving burn and keep the skin in good condition. I went to the pharmacy the next day and bought some products. Strangely it included a fragrant body wash, some special shampoo and a face cream. I tried them all, over the weekend.

Unfortunately, on Monday, Rochelle at reception noticed. “You smell nice”, she said. I felt that I had let things slip and might be found out. Somehow the shaven legs against my pants seemed wrong. A panic should be brewing, but I felt nothing.

“I had a lady friend over on the weekend,” I said calmly. “My whole apartment smells rather girly at the moment. Maybe some of it rubbed off on me”.

But somehow, I felt the need to reinforce my masculinity to her and everybody. I needed the “she-me” to be kept secret. It was becoming my strength. I had come to realist that I had become more effective at work as the sheep in wolf’s clothing. I was coping better than I ever had for weeks. There was no doubt about it now - McLellan was right. There was a female side to me, and it was the better side.

I started to wonder how far I could go to draw this thing out of me. I decided a little more dress up might be in order. It would be an experiment.

My mother had died only a few months before. She was hardly an old woman. Cancer is what killed her. I had a box of her more personal stuff in my hall cupboard. To be honest I had only given it casual examination, looking for cash and certificates and such like. But I knew there was some jewelry in there – in particular, clip on earrings. I pulled it out and went through it afresh, this time (I thought) with a woman’s eye.

I found what I was looking for – a jewelry box (short of valuable items taken my sister and older brother) and a make-up box. But I also found something that I had not noticed before and was a tantalizing bonus. In the make-up box was a plastic jar of Estradiol taken by my mother in her cancer treatment. But I knew what that was – it was a powerful female hormone. It just fell into my hands as if to say ‘swallow me’. It was the essence of femininity. Tantalizing but terrifying.

I took the afternoon off on Friday to give the whole weekend to indulge myself. I went back to V&J to get the matching bra for my pink set. and while there I bought a peignoir set. I didn’t even know what a peignoir set was. I just saw it and I had to have it. I felt that I could wear it around the house and sleep in feminine luxury. It was like taking the hormones by wearing something.

“Your wife is very lucky to have such an indulgent husband,” said the assistant.

“I’m indulging myself a little too,” I explained. “I am sure she will look fantastic in this.”

When I got back to the apartment I took a bath – perhaps for the first time in the apartment. I usually just showered quickly. I took time in the bath. I washed and conditioned my hair. I shaved my body completely, even trimming my pubic hair into a small feminine shape. I moisturized from head to toe. I slipped on my pink panties and tried on the matching bra. While I had bought a small cup size it still needed substantial stuffing to take shape. For the first time, I looked at myself critically in the mirror starting from the toes and legs, then through the panties over a penis drawn back, over the padded curves. I looked good, but then my eyes went up to my face. A man looked back. I was shocked. It was like a woman waking up and discovering that she had the head of man on her shoulders!

I found that I was crying. Strangely I was sad, but it was not with the trembling anxiety that had pushed me to this situation. It was just deep and doleful disappointment.

I decided to watch some chick flicks on TV. That made me feel better. I knew about these movies but cannot recall ever watching them. All of a sudden, they seemed more relevant to me. I could relate to the characters. I found myself praying for the romantic ending. Then crying with joy when it happened. And maybe wondering whether anything as good as that could happen to me.

That night I had a dream that could best be described as my first gay thought ever. I dreamed that a man burst into my office in the middle of a meeting and kissed me deeply before picking me up and heading for the door. My business suit had miraculously changed into a wedding dress. I looked into his eyes. He was me! I woke up with a start.

For a moment that morning I wondered if it had all gone too far. I dug into my drawer and pulled out male underwear I tried to convince myself that this was crazy – that I was becoming crazy. I needed to get some normalcy back. I needed to find some other way to fix my problems. This way was driving me nuts.

But when I got to the door I collapsed. Those negative thoughts were back, even stronger than before. I could not move. I was shaking uncontrollably. I needed to go back and put on my girly stuff. When I did I am sure the feeling was like a junkie getting the first fix after months of rehab. I just felt so calm and in control. There was a euphoria that seemed more real than any chemical could supply. Had I become dependent on women’s underwear?

I felt that I needed to talk to Dr McLennan. I tried not to push beyond the minimum until the appointment. I did not shave my body again. I kept the peignoir set hanging in the back of my closet. But when I arrived at his rooms after work, I was wearing my feminine undergarments. It was the minimum required to stay on the level all day.

“It looks like I owe you,” I said unbuttoning my shirt to show him the camisole underneath.

“Is it working?” he asked. “Do you feel more in control?”

“Frankly, no,” I replied. “I feel less in control. The panic attacks have stopped, but instead I find myself dependent on your treatment. I have to wear these underclothes, or it seems I go to pieces.”

This is new for me too,” he explained. “You are a novel case for me. But the feminine in you is so strong that we have to find a way to pull it out. Frankly I am surprised that you do not have any feelings of gender dysphoria – any transsexual thoughts?…”

“Nothing like that,” I responded truthfully. “At least not until now. I am having some dreams of being female. It is not want I want, it’s just a dream, that I am not me. Is this normal? To be frank Doc, I wonder if I am losing touch.”

I spent another hour on his couch and we talked through some of the issues. No more “regression” thankfully. That seemed to me to be the start of all this. But what we were able to establish was that I had found a way to function, and actually function extremely well, without drugs. He convinced me that my real fear was that I had learned that I had a female psyche, and that this was a crisis for my masculinity. I had to get over that and find a way to function.

As I pulled out my card to pay for both sessions he told me: “Repressing feelings can be dangerous. Let things happen. I think you are on the right path.

I went home that evening and ran myself a fragrant bath. I shaved my entire body. I washed my hair and wrapped it up in a high towel. I moisturized. I put on my peignoir. I watched “Fashion Police” on TV. I felt fantastic.

My work colleagues were beginning to notice that I looked different. I am not talking about the longer hair, I am talking about the way I carried myself. I was more relaxed and at ease around people, especially the women in my office. Some of them remarked on it.

I felt that I had recently become a more effective manager. I seemed to be suddenly more aware of what other people were thinking or feeling about issues of the day. I was becoming more of a team player – more co-operative and less dictatorial in my style. I am not saying that these are female traits, but they certainly seemed new.

It seemed that I was changing in other ways. A couple of weeks after that second consultation with McLennan I had a call from an old school friend suggesting a night on the town with a few others. I really felt that this was no longer my thing, but the truth is that only a few months ago it had been a regular thing. I could no longer put it off. I had sheer underwear on because I was afraid that an arm around my shoulders might discover my secret. I kept my sleeves buttoned to the wrist as I did at work, because my arms were shaved clean. But none of that was as awkward as the conversation and the constant leering at women. I just felt that I had nothing in common with these guys. To be honest I could not wait for the evening to be over.

Anyway, I got to talking to a very pretty girl in a bar and this was justification for sending the guys away when they were moving on to the next bar. She clearly liked me and it appeared to me that if I wanted sex with her, it would only need a few whispered words. Not that long ago those words would have spilled out and I would be humping her for all I was worth. But now it didn’t seem the way to go. I walked her home like a true gentleman. At her building I considered for a moment how I would explain my underclothes and my body as we went to bed. I decided that I could do it without even mentioning it. Just throw my camisole and panties in the corner and fuck her brains out. But I realized that I was not aroused. I realized that I was interested in her as a person, not sex object. I liked her style. I mean I liked how she looked. I liked her dress. I liked her hair and makeup. I would have liked to have been her, standing there inviting a nice man up to my apartment.

I should have panicked then and there. But that was not me anymore. I was so much more self-assured now that I knew who I was. I was just a little sad. I kissed her on the cheek and she went inside. I walked home in tears.

When I got home, I don’t know why I did it but I took two of my mother’s hormone tablets. I imagined that I could feel my body absorbing all of the femininity in that tablet. It was exhilarating. All the sadness went away. I felt as if I had taken a superhero elixir.

When the jar was used up some weeks later I went to the pharmacy to pick up the repeat dose “for my mother presently indisposed”. The pharmacist noted that the prescription was old but assured me that the tablets had a long shelf life and “were extremely powerful”. I decided that I would be wiser to reduce to only one each day. They had the effect of making me feel content, which was not a feeling that was prevalent in my life.

I bought some women’s clothes on line. I decided that as the days were getting longer I could not mope around in sleepwear after work. I bought some sundresses, just to wear around my apartment. When I wore them around the house I felt really good. My hair was now long enough to pull back and I had bought a fake pony tail on line which I could tie in at the back. What could be more girly than a sundress and a ponytail.

I even experimented a little with lipstick, eyeliner and mascara. It was a silly thing really. I still had small sideburns and a shadow of a beard. The truth is that I did not have much facial hair to start with, and I am sure that the hormones were inhibiting it further, but I was still clearly a man. That was how it had to be. The feminine side of me had to be a secret side. But the fact is that it was now intruding into my male side.

I realized that I was developing breast tissue, and that under my camisole and business shirt two little soft cones poked forward. I needed to tape them down aggressively, but I could see that if much more growing was likely, I was facing a big problem.

The other issue was the hair. I was looking after it so well that it was clear that I was a man with woman’s hair. I did my best to keep the style masculine, but it was getting too long and too full. I would need to have it cut, but I just couldn’t do it.

I was facing a crisis, so I decided to go back and see Dr McLennan. And to show him my dilemma I decided to visit him in women’s clothing. I am not sure why I decided this, but it was like saying: “Look what your therapy has done to me.” Even if I looked awful it did not matter. I would be proving a point.

I could not understand why, if I had this female psyche, it was so hard to present as a woman. I felt clumsy and awkward. I decided that I could not walk out the door dressed as a woman unless I was convincing, so I went on line and spent the whole weekend researching and practicing gestures, behavior and voice. That included filming myself with my Go-Pro and closely scrutinizing what I might be doing wrong.

I had never been outside my apartment with an outer female garment. I only had the dresses, so I wore the least colorful and over it I wore a small rain jacket that was with the mother’s stuff – something that never goes out of style. I wore white sandals with a 3 inch heel. I had bought them just to try wearing heels. I painted my nails and toenails with clear polish that I found in my mother’s stuff.

I washed my hair and tried to make it look as feminine as possible. I probably should have worn a wig, but I had always resisted that. To me that was a costume, and what I was trying to do was to satisfy whatever subconscious yearnings I had, not dress up. I brushed my hair down at the front to cover my masculine eyebrows, and down at the sides. It was a bad hairdo, but it was feminine.

I had research makeup, but I was not confident, so I wore dark glasses. I was happy with the lipstick after applying it several times.

I felt like a fool just walking to the cab. The driver knew what I was – a transvestite. And not a convincing one. But I pulled myself together and when I was dropped off, I used my best girl’s voice to thank him, and I walked down the street with confidence and purpose. Somehow the clicking of my heels and the swish of my skirts against shaved thighs seemed just right.

Strangely Dr McLennan was not at all surprised by my appearance. “I know this has been a struggle for you to reconcile but I feel that you have made the right choice,” he said.

“No Doc, you misunderstand me,” I said. This is not my solution, this is my problem. I am trying to show you that to feel right inside I need to look weird on the outside. I do not want to go out in drag. I just want to find a way to feel right.”

“You underestimate just how good you look,” he said. “I am going to write you a letter which will help to sort things out with your employer. And I am going to give the phone number of an ex-client who will be able to help.”

“As you can see, I need help…”

I sat in the waiting room with my legs crossed reading a woman’s magazine while he arranged for a letter to be typed. I smiled at the receptionist. She was wearing very pretty earrings.

He came out and gave me the letter and a business card. The business card was for Esmerelda’s Hair and Beauty. “Esmerelda was Edward. One of my most successful transwoman patient,” he said. And the letter he gave me read as follows:

“To who it may concern,

“Carl Yates has been a patient of mine for some time. Carl has gender identity dysphoria, meaning that while he is biologically male he identifies as female. It is my recommendation that he should live as a woman so as to properly adjust to his natural gender. This will necessarily involve a period of transition from male to female in dress and appearance. I urge you to assist my patient in this transfer and to make yourself aware of the legal obligations applying to transgender persons.

“Your truly,
Maurice McLennan, MPsych.”

“But this is not true,” I exclaimed. “I am not transgendered. This is just an idea you have, based on some mumbo jumbo …”

“I don’t know where you got the hormones,” he said, “but you are clearly taking big doses. I know what the effects are. I know why you’re taking them. Deny as much as you like. You’re transsexual. Use the letter if you want to. Or deny and suppress it if you think you can do that. It’s up to you.”

The next few days were a time of huge turmoil for me. I researched things and I did not meet the criteria for transgender. I had not “always felt myself to be female”. I just had a female side to me that was unknown to me until recently. Now that I had discovered this female side it seemed to be overtaking the other side of me – the male side. All the wrong thoughts were swimming about my head. But on the other hand, this person I was becoming was less troubled, better at work, and somehow more real.

I decided to raise it with my boss. It was almost as if I was seeking a second opinion when I asked how he (and the company) would feel about a transition. I was ready to have him rule it out and find another way to cope with my problem, but his response was unexpected.

“Strangely Carl, I am not surprised,” he said. “I hadn’t noticed it until recently, but you have an approach to things that is more feminine. And clearly your appearance is different. I think you are already well advanced in this transition of yours, and we will support you. Just let me know when and I will announce it to the staff.”

And so it was, that when he made the announcement on Monday morning, and when I turned up at the office after lunch, having spent the morning at Esmerelda’s Hair and Beauty, I was totally accepted. Several of the women said that they had always felt that I was a woman. How could anyone say that? I was, until now, a totally masculine man.

It was as if I was the last person to know who I really was. How could these people have seen the woman in me when I could not?

Esmerelda had certainly done her best to destroy the last vestiges of masculine appearance. I had visited her the week before for some advice on things such as gestures, and she had provided me with some pills and a hair and skin treatments. On that Monday morning I had received a full makeover. My hair was colored and curled, and I received a facial and make up. And a pedicure and manicure.

She also helped me to select a skirt and blouse that was professional but very feminine. Under the lace trimmed top I wore a push up bra that was able to make my tiny (but natural) breasts look like a good-sized pair. I wore nude pantyhose and modest black heels. I looked great.

And I felt great. This was not just the absence of stress. I felt like my whole life to that point I had been a caterpillar crawling and gnawing my way through life, and I was now a butterfly, colorful, beautiful, and I could fly. My life would now be among the flowers.

Of course, life is not like that. There were traces of a man in my face, and my voice, and my walk. Not everybody would be so accepting as those in my workplace. But I draw inner strength from many strong women who have gone before me. With all respect to them, I am not talking about the transwomen who are an example to many, I am talking about the prior lives discovered within me. The women who make me the woman I am today.

The End

© Maryanne Peters 2018