Dear Auntie Helga,
Having been a long, long time reader of your superbly inspiring site, I'm an avid and enthusiastic supporter of the values you uphold in today's society. I believe a feminised male is a very fortunate one, and for those of us that need the support and encouragement to be true to ourselves, PDQ is a shining light. I have long since considered sharing some of my own experiences, and wondered if the following prose (about myself and a completely genuine account) and a photo of me might be of interest to you and your readership?
I am now in a relationship with a wonderful real girl who celebrates my cross dressing, and helps me to explore my sissy-side too. I am both male and female in our relationship, yet as a result of her encouragement I now am starting to go out dressed as a regular woman. She is a talented hobbyist seamstress, and our eventual intent is for me to have some overtly sissy outfits - Prissy's Sissies springs to mind(!) - for us to attend events and parties in. I adore being a submissive, girly-girl and take immense satisfaction in being treated as and referred to as the mincing pantywaist I enjoy being.
Exposure in magazines like PDQ will, I'm sure push me to further accepting my feminine status in today's world.
Saffy Roberta (sissy)
When I was a little boy, perhaps seven or eight years old, I was introduced to wearing womens' clothes by my sister. Oh, she didn't intend to set for me the long and complex path that would eventually lead to me blossoming into the t-girl I am today, and of course had that moment not been catalytic then another would surely have followed. However, so it was that from the innocence of a childhood game, my girly emergence (and later total feminine dependence) was decided.
A simple pair of sheer nude tights (pantyhose for the American girls) was all it took. My mothers. They sat in a clean laundry basket in the bedroom my sister and I shared at that early age, snaked amidst other attire. I have no recollection as to why they were in our room, or indeed if I have ever so slightly misremembered that fact, yet I clearly recall being dared to 'put one foot inside them'. This was from no elder sibling intent on humiliating me, of parading me tear-stricken in mummys' clothes and snicking about me to others - it was from a slightly younger sister, merely following on our childhood love of silly things and irreverence. Not wishing to try the garment at first - even at that tender age there is pressure to 'be the boy', I must have somehow been persuaded (could I in fact have been compelled, too?) as I distinctly remember placing one foot inside the nylon material, clumsily bunching it and drawing the filmy sheath a little further up my leg.
I don't recall my sisters' reaction at me tentatively trying on our mothers' hosiery, or any self-satisfaction at 'winning' the dare. I merely know I 'felt funny', yet while those feelings were unformed and unknown to me they were also compelling and enticing - unlike any that had gone before... Imagine a camera panning out with the directors' final shot during a film, leaving the eponymous heroine standing there with the world fading around her. That was me, stood in my childhood bedroom partly clad in an article of ladies underwear the first time.
Curiosity and wanting led to me continuing to experiment with tights. I simply needed to experience that intensity of feeling I'd inadvertently been exposed to. I took to exploring my mum's underwear drawer, at first only looking for tights, yet simultaneously being exposed to other confusingly alien items - profusions of clips and straps and silky materials. I was so terrified of being caught during those forays it seemed my heart was constantly in my mouth, and I would practically wait until guaranteed my parents (and even my sister who presumably was unaware the game hadn't ended for me...) were at work or school, or Australia, or better still the moon before sliding open that upper right hand drawer of my mothers' dresser to find my prize.
I would crawl on my knees below net-curtained windows and even avoid the gaze of the family cat lest his reaction was somehow shocked, so palpable was my fear of discovery - beaten only by the undeniable drive to dress, as strong as that same moons' pull on the tides. I had no clear sense of right or wrong, or if I did it was weakened and disarmed - I was governed by a need I didn't fully understand that demanded quelling. So it was that I would dress in her tights when I got the opportunity, mesmerised at how they felt gliding over my skin, at how snugly they contoured and encased my feet, legs and bottom. Did she suspect? Possibly yes - I recall being terrified at the mass of voluminous nylon left after removing the fabric - it was so taut to begin with! There was little Lycra in hosiery back then, and I grew to wearing and then hiding the tights before returning so that they could shrink... How naive I probably was. The misshaped pairs must have caused her to suspect, no matter how carefully I tried to secret them back in her drawer.
I started to try on other items as time went on - just the occasional slip (my mother made her own from satin and lace with elasticated waists, and as she wore full skirts the slips were in abundance as the skirts demanded them), and one or two other items I'm sure. I can't remember trying on my first bra, nor when that might have been. I was very aware it was 'wrong' for a little boy to do these things and conscious as time went by that each new item tried could be another stepping stone towards... what, exactly?
I can recall teetering precariously along the landing wearing a pair of my mother's grey high heels that were too big for me, and later I continued to walk in them until such a time as my feet had grown and they were too small... I couldn't have known that later in life I would buy my own female shoes, infinitely more cutesy, girly, fussy and frivolous, sometimes sexy and wanton too, complimenting my smoothly shaved effeminately-shaped legs clad in nylons.
Time went on, and the thing I dreaded happened. A call from my bedroom - my own room now. My mothers' voice. Angry. Me, fearful in response at her summons. Aware I was in trouble. Acutely aware. The awful truth revealed - my wardrobe door open and the supposedly hidden 'borrowed' items of both my mothers and sisters underwear revealed at the bottom, found by my mother herself who now demanded explanation. I'm not sure how old I was when this happened (maybe ten or eleven?) but I do recall that awful sick-to-the-bottom-of-the-stomach feeling that arose in me. Embarrassed beyond belief, I could muster only 'I don't know', averting my gaze to hide my burning cheeks and teary face. Since that day I can't be sure if I was actually wearing a pair of her sheer tights beneath the trousers I had on and was terrified that secret too would be found, or if I have in fact romanticised that part. My recollection is I did indeed have on tights at the time and was terrified she might realise. My memory has I think blocked out much of what happened during that traumatic moment of discovery, yet it has haunted me ever since. It has never been mentioned by either of us since.
The important thing I remember is it of course didn't prevent my urge to dress, and if your hiding place is found - well what then? You find a better one. So it was that throughout the remainder of my childhood years a bag containing what little female underwear I had lay hidden beneath a loose floorboard in the corner of my room, concealed by carpet and chair. At night I would sometimes open that Pandora's Box, careful lest the creak of floorboard revealed me, and I would sleep in whatever took my fancy - occasionally worn beneath the knitted blue sweater I had stretched down and down until it was no longer a sweater, but a dress, echoing my own migration into girlhood.
I was slowly cementing my transvestism, and naturally as puberty hit the clothes nurtured and caressed my body enhancing my erotic sensuality, adding a fetishtic stroke to the feminine compulsion that had been awakened in me so early on. At first I resisted trying on each 'new' item of apparel lest those walls came tumbling down, yet tumble down they continued to do... Each piece of clothing, each jigsaw shape completing the puzzle was fought against, yet the edges and corner pieces had already been placed. I was set to become a fairy, a pansy, a pantywaist, and despite my contradictory developing masculinity, I was both fated and desperate to be that pretty princess too.
Saffy Roberta (sissy)
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