My name is Tommy Johnson. I'm 36 years old, five-foot-ten, 155 pounds, brown hair, brown eyes. I'm married, got three kids, live in a modest ranch-style home in the suburbs, work in production control for a minor manufacturer, and bowl in a Wednesday night couples' league. A pretty average fellow, except for one thing: I'm a crossdresser - a transvestite, if you prefer. I enjoy dressing in clothing of the opposite sex.
Shocked? Well, tough. I'll be damned if I'm going to apologize for it anymore. I mentally beat myself up over my crossdressing for a lot of years. Berating myself for being a "sissy", a "pansy", a "faggot", yet irresistibly drawn to feminine attire, like a moth to a flame. Loathing the things I did when I was alone, yet always looking forward to the next opportunity. Accumulating huge caches of dresses, skirts, lingerie, and so on, often at great risk or expense, and then purging it with a vow to never do anything so disgusting again.
I was 13 years old and in the eighth grade when I began crossdressing, and my first experience is as vivid in my mind as if it happened yesterday. I was the youngest in our family, with two older sisters: Cindy was 15 then and Joni 16. I suffered from a particularly nasty case of puberty; the ol' testosterone hit me with a vengeance. Teenage guys are an awfully horny bunch to begin with, and I was surely among the horniest; one of those guys who has a "sexual thought" every three seconds or so. Just seeing a pretty girl walk by could put a rocket in my pocket. It hadn't taken long to figure out that stroking myself while in that state could make me feel like I was in heaven without the trouble of going to church.
Usually, I masturbated when I went to bed at night or first thing in the morning, and as such, had to rely on my imagination for stimulation. Thinking about girls I knew at school or actresses in movies and television shows (oh, Ginger!). But my ability to form mental images has never been too sharp, so, when I had the opportunity, I preferred to use "visual aids".
Now, much as I would have enjoyed it, I had no access to pictures of naked women. Dad had no stash of girlie magazines laying around the house (at least, not that I could ever find). And shy little ol' me sure wasn't going to walk into a store and buy such things! So, I made do with what I had: mail-order catalogues.
Of course, this was the early seventies, a time when some awfully sexy clothing was considered acceptable for everyday wear by "nice" girls: miniskirts that just barely covered the buttocks, empire waist dresses with scoop necklines that showed a lot of cleavage, skintight hot pants, tight clingy sweaters, white vinyl go-go boots. Outrageous styles that previous and subsequent generations could only have purchased from Frederick's of Hollywood all were available from those bastions of middle American mail-order merchandising. My god, I remember girls my age coming to school in outfits that a few years before or after would only have been found on ladies who were "horizontally employed". Ah, those were the days.
So, anyway. I was home alone on a Saturday afternoon, and knew I had the place to myself for several hours. I lay on my bed, jockey shorts down around my ankles and the heavy catalogue propped on my chest, flogging my log. I turned a page in the juniors' section and saw this really cute blonde modeling this sexy outfit: a very short blue-checked miniskirt, a white blouse with pointy gull-wing collar and long balloon sleeves, and blue vest. Then it occurred to me that I'd seen my sister Cindy wearing an almost identical outfit a few days earlier.
Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming urge to check it out. If looking at a photo could be so pleasurable, maybe seeing the real thing would be even better! I pulled up my shorts and padded next door to my sisters' room. As I gently pushed the door open, my heart beat faster at my audacity. Like most pesky little brothers, I was seldom allowed in my sisters' room.
The door to their walk-in closet and been replaced by a curtain composed of floor-length strands of tiny party-colored plastic beads. I stepped through, the clacking and clattering of the beads seeming terribly loud in the silent house. I reached up to slowly tug the long string hanging down from the ceiling. The bare 60-watt bulb flicked on.
And there, hung in a row on a long metal rod, was the most marvelous array of feminine clothing. Flimsy floral-print mini-dresses with narrow sashes that tied in the back. Stiff bright-colored polyester A-line dresses with wide white collars framing scoop necklines. Heavy herringbone jumpers with shiny silver buckles on the straps and self-belt. Tiny plaid wool miniskirts with broad leather belts. Silk blouses with balloon sleeves and pointy collars in crayon colors. Wildly patterned pullovers. Cute little vests. The pleated plaid skirt and navy blue blazer that girls at our school wore. Joni's cheerleader uniform. And toward the back, in several dry cleaners' bag, the beautiful satin and velvet gowns the girls had worn to Christmas Formal and other big school dances.
My god! Why hadn't I thought of this before? Cindy and Joni had all sorts of sexy clothes in here! This was bound to be lots better than looking at a mere picture! I riffled through until I found the outfit I was after. Noting its place on the clothing rod, I carefully extricated it and took it to my room. I hooked the wire hanger over the door jamb, then lay down, tugged down my shorts, and got back to work.
However, the results were quite frustrating. Yeah, it was a sexy outfit, but just looking at it, hanging limp and empty, didn't do much for me. It had to be on somebody, had to be filled out by a warm feminine form. I had to see it on some sexy teenage girl!
Disappointed that my idea for a new masturbatory stimulus had not panned out, I pulled up my shorts again. Retrieving the outfit from where it was hanging, I carried it back to the girls' room. As I came through their door, I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye of the big mirror on the opposite wall, and it startled me. My near-nude condition and the way I was holding the hangered outfit in front of me created the impression of a girl walking in! The impression was so vivid that for a split second, I feared that I had been caught by Cindy or Joni! In the next instant, I realized that it was merely my own reflection, appearing girl-like, that had startled me.
I stood there, stock still. A glimmer of an idea began to form in my head. An idea so incredible, that I didn't even dare think it out in my own mind. Slowly, I walked up to her dresser, my eyes fixed on the big mirror like a zombie. I held the outfit up, so that the collar was at my throat and the top of the sleeves at my shoulders. Yeah ... Then a snippet of conversation from the week before came back to me: Cindy asking to borrow a pair of my jeans because hers were in the wash and "we're about the same size".
About the same size! If Cindy could wear my jeans, then I!...
No! I couldn't! No way! What was the matter with me? How could I even think of such a thing? What was I, some kind of SISSY? But as my mind tried to cast the threatening thought out, I felt a stirring in my groin, a hormone-induced demand that I knew I couldn't resist. Yes, the urge said, yes! Buddy, this is the way! You know you want to be with - to have - sexy chicks wearing sexy clothes. What studly red-blooded all-American teen guy wouldn't? But you can't get your hands on real girls, not yet anyway. So what's wrong if, for the time being, you make up a girl, a sexy little number to call your own? A living doll who will wear what you want, say what you want, do what you want! It's not being a sissy; you don't want to BE a girl, you want to HAVE a girl!
That was it! I pulled the blue vest from the hanger, then the white blouse, then the little blue- checked miniskirt. Like a man possessed, I pulled on the blouse, frantically fumbling with buttons that buttoned the wrong way. I pulled on the skirt and zipped it up the back, then slid on the vest and tied it at the front. I turned and faced the mirror.
I stood transfixed, like a deer in headlights, gazing at my reflection. My heart pounded in my chest and my throat was dry as a bone. I was no beauty, but God! Did it ever turn me on! Wearing that sexy little outfit was enormously arousing! My dick strained and struggled against the confines of my fruit-of-the-looms, and pre-cum oozed out the tip.
I quickly lifted the hem of the skirt and pulled down my shorts, just enough to free my rigid cock. Frantically, I began rubbing it, standing right there in my sister's room, all the while gazing intently - passionately! - at my reflection. Oh, god, this was great! I was having my way with a sexy teen chick! She was in my power. I could make her do whatever I wanted her to. She was mine, body and soul! Oh, baby, I'm gonna have my way with you now! Leaning close to the mirror, I breathlessly moaned the words I'd longed to hear for so long: fuck me, Tommy, you big stud! Take me to bed and fuck my pussy!
Suddenly, an incredible wave of raw pleasure swept over me, and I collapsed onto the carpet, jerking uncontrollably. My body was racked by wave after wave of sheer orgasmic ecstasy, and a huge gob of cum erupted from my cock. Oh my God! It was awesome! Though I had masturbated hundreds of times over the past couple of years, that was the single most intense rush I had EVER experienced!
* * *
From then on, I took every opportunity I could to be alone, even feigning illness to stay home from school. I felt as though a whole new exciting world, a world I'd never even dreamed of, had opened up before me. It was marvelous, and I relished every moment I spent crossdressed.
That's not to say I didn't have reservations about my activities. It was a crazy roller coaster ride of emotions: one minute filled with abject disgust at what I did, the next avidly concocting some new crossdressing scheme. I wondered why I liked it so much. Was I queer? I didn't think so, as I figured homos were hot for guys and I was only hot for chicks. Yet dressing up in dresses and skirts scarcely seemed like a typical activity for a normal All-American boy. I just assumed that I was the only guy on the entire planet who had ever stumbled on the idea of dressing up in girls' clothing as a means of getting off.
It wasn't long before I discovered bras, padding out Cindy's 34B and Joni's 36C with balled-up socks to simulate breasts. I began retrieving their panties from the laundry hamper, quickly learning to relish the incredibly silky sensations they caused when stroking myself. From there, it was but a short step to their pantyhose. When I found their shoes too small to fit me, it sent me to Mom's closet. There, in addition to feminine footwear that fit, I found a whole 'nother world of fashions. Not as sexy as the styles my teenage sisters wore, but quite arousing just the same. I also found a short curly dark wig on a styrofoam head up on the top shelf, which Mom and bought on a lark but never really worn. Though I would have greatly preferred to have had long flowing blonde tresses, it was at least more feminine than my own collar-length cut. Finally, I began to use makeup. Just Mom's bright red lipstick at first, but eventually the whole kit. My early attempts were comical and clownish, but with practice, I eventually achieved the desired result.
Before long, I had tried on nearly every outfit in the girls' and Mom's closets. I enjoyed dressing up as a beautiful Prom queen in Joni's burgundy velvet formal. As a proper school girl in Cindy's skirt and blazer. As a perky cheerleader in Joni's school-colors letter-sweater and pleated skirt. As a stylish middle-aged mother in a sleeveless blue and white floral print knit dress. Each outfit, each crossdressing experience, triggered an enormous erection and massive ejaculation. I quickly learned to pack a wad toilet paper around the end of my penis to avoid embarrassing stains. To the best of my knowledge, no one ever caught on.
Fully dressed and made up, I appeared very feminine. In some outfits, and with proper care about makeup, I'm sure I could have passed for female on the streets. (Well, as long as you weren't within half a block of me.) This was particularly true when I wore Mom's dresses and her wig. Much to my chagrin, I made a much more convincing middle-aged mom than I did a teenage girl. Harriet Nelson, June Cleaver, Carol Brady, and me! But I never got up the nerve to venture out in public.
That's not to say that I didn't do some pretty stupid stuff. At times, I was literally possessed by an obsession for women's clothing, a drive that led me to do things against my better judgment. I began swiping underwear, especially bras, when visiting friends' houses, finding some way to hastily search their sisters' or mothers' drawers, to find some new treasure to add to my collection. I swiped clothing left hanging on clotheslines in the neighborhood. I even shoplifted from local department stores.
By the time I graduated high school, I had pretty much outgrown all my sisters' clothing, nor did many of Mom's outfits fit any longer. When it came time to leave for college in the fall of 1978, I decided that it was time to be a man now, to purge myself of this "weakness". Every stitch of feminine attire I owned went to Goodwill. I told myself that sort of puerile sexual horseplay was alright for a horny adolescent, but I was a college man now, and far too mature to waste my time in such unseemly pursuits.
Yeah, right.
Actually, I was able to successfully suppress my crossdressing urges for quite some time. At 16, I had begun to date real girls, and made tentative forays into the realm of sexual relations. I was no lady killer, but over the next two years, I did manage to find several girls who found making out and heavy petting as enjoyable as I did. And once I got to college, I had no trouble meeting young ladies who avidly relished a tumble in the sack. (This was in the days of curable STD's, remember.) For awhile, the wonderful novelty of full-tilt sexual intercourse - frequently and with a variety of partners - removed much of the pressure that had driven me to crossdress, robbed it of much of its lustre and appeal. You know: been there, done that.
Then, my senior year, I met Becky. She was a most wonderful girl, the kind who struck you right off as being very pretty. But later, when you thought about it, you realized that her prettiness was not really due to her figure or her face or her features. In fact, examined objectively, her looks were very ordinary. Her nose was a bit large, her lips a bit thin, her complexion a bit coarse, and her thin hair a non-descript shade somewhere between dark blonde and light brunette. Furthermore, she was a large girl. Not fat by any means; she was physically active and quite fit. But she was tall (as tall as me) and well built, with broad shoulders, a large chest, and large feet.
But the personality that animated that form made her seem like the prettiest girl you'd ever met. She was sweet without being sappy, cheerful without being annoying, lively without being stupid. She was very perceptive about people and their feelings, very empathetic to their concerns, very insightful to their motivations. Her eyes sparkled with interest and intellect, and her smile could dispel the deepest gloom. Plus, she was very astute at dressing and grooming to look her very best. Is it any wonder I fell madly in love with her?
After graduating in the spring of 1982, I took an entry-level position with the company that still employs me, while Becky became a teacher at a nearby elementary school. A year later, we were wed in a beautiful formal ceremony at our church. We took out a mortgage and bought a modest ranch- style home, and set out to build our life together. As before, the novelty of marriage and the demands of our new life kept thoughts of crossdressing at bay. Occasionally, some television program or news item would bring crossdressing to my attention. I would smile fondly, thinking back to when I did that, much as you might watch a child play hopscotch or jacks and smile at the recollection of a time when you, too, could also take pleasure in such childish things. Yes, for quite awhile, crossdressing was something that I used to do.
Chapter 2: A New Twist on an Old Hobby
Three years after we married, our first child was born, a little girl we named Megan. Two years later, Brittany was born, and a year later, little Tiffany. Three daughters in three years! Needless to say, their advent meant major changes in our lives. Simple things suddenly got a whole lot more complicated. As newlyweds we had been spontaneous, able to pack up and take off for a romantic weekend on the spur of the moment. As young parents, just going to the supermarket together was a major undertaking: diaper bags, bottles of formula and juice, car safety seats, little sweaters and blankets, pacifiers, baby toys. Not to mention a whole lot more expensive, particularly with Becky's frequent and extended maternity leave from her teaching position.
At the same time, I was trying to build a career at the company. It was not an easy place in which to advance, and I put in long hours trying to impress my supervisor. Like many young fathers, I was painfully aware of my role as provider for my young family. They were depending on me to provide a good life, a life free from worry and want. This created a great deal of stress for me.
As so often happens, the arrival of children also meant major changes in our love life. Not that we loved each other one wit less. No, the birth of our daughters had truly sealed the bond of our union, as it should. The love we felt for the little miracles we had created only strengthened the love we felt for each other. After all, each little bundle of joy was a little bit me and a little bit her.
Nonetheless, the realities of child rearing left us less able to physically express our love. As newlyweds, we had hopped in the sack for a playful romp at the drop of a hat: bright Saturday afternoons on the sofa, leisurely Sunday mornings in bed, hasty weekday lunch hours in a hotel room. But as young parents, we both were simply too tired, too taxed by the demands of three little children (and I by increasing job pressures), to be spontaneous. We recognized the problem, and took positive steps: packing the kids off to Aunt Joni or Aunt Cindy for an evening, enrolling them in a Saturday morning play group, setting aside Friday evenings for lovemaking. But still, it just wasn't the same. More often than not, we ended up using the time free from the children to catch up on household chores that never seemed to get done otherwise.
Shortly after Megan finished first grade, I was passed over for a major promotion at work. I was devastated. Ten years I had slaved for that company, and now this! Needing to do some serious thinking about my future, I took a week's vacation. Becky wisely knew that I needed breathing space, so she took the girls to visit her mother down in Florida for that week.
The day after they left, I wandered absently into Megan's room. Standing there in that bright cheerful little room, amid the joyful clutter of little girls' toys and games, I found myself thinking about just how lucky she and her sisters were. What a carefree life they led! Spending their days happily playing with dolls, coloring in their coloring books, watching children's videos. Sheltered from life's pressures and stresses. The greatest tragedy in their little lives was skinning a knee while roller skating, or finding a goldfish belly up. Even little boys don't have it as easy (as well I knew from my own boyhood): never allowed to show kindness or gentleness, always having to be tough and competitive, never being allowed to cry or be upset, always being told to "be a man". But little girls are treated like princesses. Cherished. Protected. Cared for.
The girls' "Candy Land" game was laying out on the floor, so I picked it up to return it to its place on the closet shelf. I opened the closet door, and reached up to slowly tug the long string hanging down from the ceiling. The bare 60-watt bulb flicked on.
There, hung in a row on a long metal rod, was a most marvelous array of little girls' clothing. Lovely velvet dresses with lace trim. Cute float dresses with bib collars. Pretty floral print spring dresses with little white straw hats. Little fleece dresses with heart and teddy bear appliques. Three-tiered cotton skirts edged with ruffles. Tiny denim miniskirts. Plaid skirts with deep flounces at the hem. Colorful jumpers. White blouses with Peter Pan collars. Pretty sweaters with kitty cat and moo cow embroidery. Pullover sets with coordinated tights. An entire wardrobe of little girls' clothing.
As I stood there, board game still in hand, I suddenly flashed back to the day, nearly twenty years earlier, that I had first gone to my sisters' closet. All of a sudden, I felt a tremendous stirring within me. It was formless and nameless at first, and only gradually did I realize what I wanted to do. What I had to do.
I WANTED TO BE A LITTLE GIRL!
Yes, I know it sounds insane, but it's true! At that moment, I was overcome with a most profound desire to be a little girl, a precious little princess like Megan and Brittany and Tiffany. Someone who would be sheltered and protected from fear and want. Someone who could cry when hurt, but who would never know true pain. Someone blissfully naive of the strife and concerns of the adult world. Someone for whom life was happy and carefree, for whom playtime was all the time.
Like a man possessed, I riffled through the array of frocks and outfits, drinking in their sweet charm and playful designs. Oh, I thought, if only I were small enough to fit into these things! Then, I could do as I had done as a teen: dress in girls' clothing in order to achieve a happiness that otherwise eluded me. If only I could fit into those sweet tiny little outfits, I might escape the terrible pressures of my career, escape the awesome burden of responsibility I felt as the family provider, escape the ache and the misery and the dread that filled my soul so many sleepless nights. Escape, if only for a little while.
Then it occurred to me: there might be items in my wife's wardrobe that could pass muster as little girl's attire. Clothing that could be adapted to create the desired effect. Clothing that could make me look like a little girl! Without the least hesitation, I went to our bedroom, and slid open the door on Becky's half of the closet.
Most things there were too obviously intended for an adult woman to suit my needs. But there were a few things that were more youthful looking, including an empire-waist dress in a bright happy pink rayon/acetate crepe. I extracted it from the clothing rod, held it at arms length, and looked it over. It was relatively short, not quite knee length on Becky, with a broad white lace collar, fairly puffy sleeves trimmed in matching lace, and a narrow sash that tied in back. Yes, this would do.
...Just like that, fifteen years of resistance and denial evaporated completely. All the rationalizations and self-recriminations disappeared completely from my mind. All the terrible things I had thought about myself. Gone.
I stripped naked. From Becky's drawers, I fetched a simple pair of pink cotton full-cut panties. Again, they represented an article of women's clothing that could be pressed into service as little girls' clothing. I pulled them on, instantly reliving lovely sensations that I had denied myself for fifteen years. They were a bit snug, but looked good.
Fifteen years earlier, the next step would have been a bra, padded out to voluptuous proportions, then sheer nylon pantyhose. But those were not things little girls wore. I skipped the bra and instead of pantyhose, carefully pulled on a pair of Becky's opaque white tights: another article of clothing worn by girls and women alike. The tights did an excellent job of covering my copious leg hair. Once again, I reveled in a marvelously snug sensation I had not allowed myself to experience since I was a teen.
From a shoebox, I retrieved a brand new pair of shiny black Mary Jane's that Becky had just purchased; she hadn't even worn them herself yet! I marveled at my good fortune that these little girl style shoes were now very much in style as adult women's footwear. Despite the gunboat proportions of Becky's feet, the shoes were a bit snug on me as I buckled the strap over the instep; thank goodness for that broad rounded toe!
This taken care of, I pulled the dress over my head, zipped it up the back, and tied the sash in a loose floppy bow. Yes! It fit very well! A bit snug at the waist, and baggy through the bodice, but very serviceable. I ran my hands down, savoring the feel of the crisp, pleasantly scratchy fabric against my skin.
The final step was the hair. Becky, like a lot of girls in the early seventies, had bought a cheap pageboy wig. Hers was a clear medium blonde, obviously an attempted improvement on her own non-descript dishwater shade. And like most of those girls, she had worn it once or twice, gotten tired of all the jokes and teasing, and never worn it again. It sat on its styrofoam head, covered by a plastic bag, on the top shelf of the closet. I retrieved it and slipped it on, brushing it into place. Once it was on, I gathered up the strands first on one side, then the other, binding each with a broad piece of pink satin ribbon tied in a bow. Because of the rather short length of the wig, the result was a pair of little, bouncy, bobbing "poodle ears", situated high up on either side.
I turned to look at myself in our full-length mirror and was very pleased with the results. There was a definite little-girlishness about my appearance, a sweetness, a niceness. Oh, a blind man at midnight would never have mistaken me for a real child - or for an adult female, for that matter. But in the same way that a couple key stage props can create an entire world of illusion and belief in the theater, so too did the clothing I wore begin to create a world of illusion and belief in my mind.
As I stood staring at my reflection, a most incredible feeling of - I guess "contentment" is the word, or "well-being" - settled over me. Great peace of mind, a sense of relief. All my burdens, all my worries, all my fears melted away, like ice cubes on a July sidewalk. Those things weren't real - jobs, promotions, careers. I didn't have to worry about them; I didn't even understand them. I was just a little girl. A sweet innocent little ball of goodness. Feeling at peace. Feeling content. Feeling good.
One thing that I wasn't feeling, however, was aroused, which I found odd. When I was a teen, just thinking about dressing up in girls' clothing could induce an embarrassingly flagrant erection. As a teen, dressing in my teenage sisters' or adult mother's clothing had always been very much a sexual thing, an activity that invariably culminated in masturbatory orgasm. But now, as a middle- aged man, dressing in clothing meant to imitate that of little girls, I experienced no arousal, no erection. No quickening of the pulse and breath, no pounding of the heart, no dryness of the mouth, no reddening of the face, no clamminess of the hands. None of the "symptoms" that had always been associated with crossdressing for me. Instead, I felt placid, calm, serene, totally at ease.
It gradually occurred to me that this was as it should be. Sex is an adult thing, like work and money. And like work and money, sex can often be the cause of contention, fear, and sorrow, even among the most mature and well-adjusted adults. Sex is something children should be sheltered from, protected from. It would be a terrible wrong for innocent children to be exposed to such an adult thing. No, if I wanted to escape the trials and tribulations of adulthood - the stress, the responsibility, the anxiety - I would have to be as ignorant as a child about human sexuality.
I stood there a long time, just looking at my reflection in the mirror, gazing at it intently, letting this marvelous sense of contentment wash over me like the waters of a jacuzzi. Drinking in the crayon-pink high-waisted dress, with its childishly short skirt and girlishly lacey collar and trim, the white tights and Mary Jane shoes, the happily bobbing little blond ponytails atop my head.
I am dressed as a little girl. I look like little girl. I feel like a little girl. I am ...
A childish grin spread over my face and my eyes brightened, growing wide. "Hi! My name's Melissa!" I said cheerily to my reflection in the mirror. "I'm seven years old!" Only when I said it, I affected a stereotypically child-like lisp that made my name sound like "Mewiffa" and my age like "thebben yearth ode". "I'm going to my room to play!" I turned and skipped out the door and down the hall to Megan's room, holding the hem of my dress.
I spent the entire afternoon in Megan's room: playing with her toys, coloring in her coloring books, having a tea party with her dollies. At suppertime, I heated a can of spaghetti-o's, then spent the entire evening watching children's videos. "I love you, you love me ..." All thoughts of my job and my obligations totally fled my mind. I was a carefree and happy little seven-year-old girl named Melissa, for whom life was a bowl of cherries instead of the pits.
As the evening drew to a close, I went to the bathroom and filled the tub, adding a double capful of Mr. Bubble to the swirling waters. I undressed and slipped into the warmly fragrant waters. It was a little difficult, maintaining my girlish frame of mind without the childish attire. But I managed to stay happy, playing imaginatively with bath toys and the great heaps of bubbles.
Once I had finished my bath and was dry, I put the panties back on and went to the dresser drawer where Becky keeps her pajamas. There, I found what I was looking for: a pair of pink babydolls, yet another item from an adult woman's wardrobe that could be pressed into service as little girls' attire. I slipped them on, reveling in their cool light airiness. I returned to Megan's room, turned on her clown nightlight, turned off the room light, and snuggled up in her little bed with a big pink teddy bear. With a big contented smile on my face and my thumb in my mouth, I drifted off dreamily to the best night's sleep I had had in years!
Chapter 3: Reaching Out
The remainder of that week of vacation was spent in the same way: cobbling together some sort of an outfit from my wife's clothing that would resemble little girl attire, then losing myself in a carefree world of little girl play. In addition to the pink empire-waist dress I'd worn the first day, Becky had a couple jumpers that looked somewhat juvenile, as well as a short plaid skirt that, when worn with a white blouse, created the impression of a young school girl. But all-in-all, my choices were somewhat limited and not entirely satisfactory.
It wasn't lost on me that although its effects were different - placidity rather than arousal - what I was doing was pretty much a resumption of my teenage crossdressing. I was still using feminine attire to achieve a happiness that otherwise eluded me. It was just that the happiness coveted by a middle-aged family man was different from that desired by a horny teenage boy.
There was the one fly in the ointment, one thing that kept me from truly relishing my newfound "hobby": the fact that I was plagued by a nagging sense of shame and lonely feelings of uniqueness. Once again, I believed that I was the only guy on the entire planet who had every done anything so incredibly bizarre.
By this time, of course, I had long since discovered that I was not the only guy on the planet who had enjoyed dressing in women's clothing. Though I had never actually met anyone else who crossdressed, I had seen enough episodes of "Sally Jesse" and "Donohue" to have become somewhat educated about crossdressing. I knew that while some crossdressers were gay or bisexual, most were fundamentally heterosexual. I knew that some were transgendered, feeling that a female mind and soul had mistakenly been placed in a male body, and that sexual reassignment surgery was often the best option for such folks. And I knew that there were also plenty of perfectly normal red-blooded all- American men out there who enjoyed dressing in womens' clothing as a sexual thrill. But I had never, ever, heard about any guy who wanted to dress up as a little girl!
Being a crossdresser was one thing. Plenty of guys do that. You see it on TV and read it in the papers all the time. They even get a modicum of respect and sympathetic consideration in some quarters, particularly those who are transgendered. Family and friends often come to grips with it and learn to accept it. Why, in the more enlightened parts of the country, they are even protected from discrimination by the same laws that protect minorities, women, and gays. But I felt that what I did would only engender revulsion and disgust if ever any of my family or friends found out.
...Worse, I felt that even other crossdressers, "normal" crossdressers - would consider me odd and unusual. Watching a bizarrely and outrageously dressed drag queen on a talk show one afternoon, I imagined how it might go if we met while I was dressed as "Melissa": s/he would take one look at my little pink dress, white tights, black Mary Janes, and bobbing little ponytails and hiss, "Jeezus! You are one sick little puppy! Get away from me, you little pervert!"
Nonetheless, I was mostly able to keep those bad feelings at bay, and to enjoy my week as seven- year-old "Melissa". By the time Becky and the girls returned from Florida, I was refreshed and rejuvenated, ready to knuckle down and get to work. Becky immediately noticed my improved outlook and attitude and commented that my week of solitude had done the trick, that I was like a new man. Well, I thought wryly, new maybe, but hardly a man!
I knew I had to tell her, to explain just how I had been able to overcome my grand funk. We had a good marriage, an honest marriage. This was something important to me, something essential to my well-being. For better or worse, I had to share it with her. My hope was that she would be able to see beyond the bizarreness of it, to see how necessary it was to my peace of mind, and perhaps be able to help me with it.
On a Friday evening, with the girls' at Aunt Joni's, I prepared us a pleasant gourmet dinner, complete with a good cabernet sauvignon. Afterwards, as the candles burned low, I told her that there was something I wanted to share with her, something she had a right to know. I told her it was going to be hard for me, and asked her to just listen patiently and withhold comment until I was finished. Then, slowly, haltingly, our hands clasped across the table, I recounted the entire story. How I had discovered crossdressing as a young teen, used it as sexual release for several years, then laid it aside when I went away to college. How I had "rediscovered" it during their recent absence. With difficulty, almost stammering, I told her that this time, however, there was a new twist: that I dressed as a little girl. Her eyes grew wide at that admission, but she said nothing.
I emphasized that this new round of activity was not at all sexual, but rather something that induced a great feeling of serenity and well-being. I described how good I had felt while pretending to be a little girl, so placid and carefree. I asked her to recall her own comments regarding my improved mental state at the end of that week.
I finished by saying that pretending to be a little girl allowed me to escape the pressures and stress of the real world for a little while, to gather my strength and return, ready to do battle. For me, a little girl's world was a safe haven, a place of comfort. I could be a better man, a healthier man, a stronger man, and certainly a saner man, by every once in a while being a little girl. I recognized that this was very bizarre, not the sort of thing a wife expects a husband to do, but that it really did help me. I reminded her of a book she had recently read, which said that for people to truly be well, we needed to "get in touch with our inner child". Well, I said, attempting to end on a lighter note, apparently my inner child was a little girl!
When it was clear that I had finished making my case, she just continued to look into my eyes, holding my hands, for the longest time. An eternity later, she spoke. "Darling, I-I-I don't know what to say! This is so, so ... incredible!"
Clearly she was torn. On the one hand, she felt compassion for the tortures that she knew I was going through. We were too close, too much in love, for her not to realize what a sheer hell it was for me to admit such a thing to her, to risk condemnation in her eyes. On the other hand, the thought of me, dressed in her clothing and prancing around our daughter's room, a deranged caricature of a child, clearly repulsed her. "I sensed there was something going on in your life, something that made you feel differently, but I never dreamed it was this!" She continued searching my eyes, then said, "So what is it? Why have you told me this? What is it you want from me, Tommy?"
Oh, god! This is it! All or nothing! "Darling, I love you so much! You mean more to me than anything in the world. I.. I.. I've got to have you in on this, to be part of it with me. I guess I need your, your ... approval, your ... participation." There, I'd said it.
A pained look came over Becky's face. "Oh, darling! You mean to see you dressed up that way? To help you dress up that way? Oh my god, please don't ask that of me! I.. I couldn't! Tommy, you're my husband! The father of our children! I look up to you, depend on you! You're the man of the family! To see you dressed like, like that! Acting like that! I couldn't take it. No, Tommy, if you must do this thing, then do what you must when you're alone. But I don't want to know about it. And I can't, I simply can't help you. I'm sorry!"
I was crushed. What could I do now?
Like many young families, we had purchased a home computer. A 486 multi-media set-up that Becky and I could use for housekeeping and job-related activities, and the girls for fun and education. The package included software for one of the major on-line services. I plugged a phone line into the 28.8 bps modem, dialed them up, gave them a credit card number, and before I knew it, I was cruising down the information superhighway!
I think you see where this is going. The very first chance I had, I fed the search engine key words like "transvestite", "crossdresser", and "transgendered". Bingo! All sorts of matches! One led to another: USENET newsgroups, bulletin boards, electronic newsletters and forums, IRC chat rooms. A whole new world opened up before me. As I said, I had learned via the popular media that there were indeed other crossdressers out there. But I had never dreamed there were so many!
I lurked for awhile, reading posts in "alt.sex.trans" and fiction in "alt.sex.stories.tg". I worked up my courage and subscribed to a crossdressers' forum and read commentaries and life stories by hundreds of other men who relished feminine attire and the feminine lifestyle. Signing up required me to post my own little biography, which I did. However, I carefully omitted the juvenile aspects of my recent resumption of crossdressing. I was afraid to confess my true feelings for fear of their rejection. Likewise, when I got bolder and began to reach out to others in the chat rooms, I likewise neglected to mention my fascination with the more youthful aspects of our hobby. I couldn't bear the thought that these new-found friends, these people whom society viewed with revulsion and disgust, might look on me and my own particular kink in the same way. Well, what did I expect? I was, after all, the only person in the entire history of the planet to have ever done anything so bizarre.
But then one day in early September, something happened. I saw a post on a local crossdressers' bulletin board that, while it said nothing explicit, made me think that there just might be a kindred spirit out there. The post was signed "Little Jennifer".
My mind was instantly seized with the thought that this must be another crossdresser who had discovered the joys of childhood! My heart was pounding as I typed out a carefully worded message to "Little Jennifer's" e-mail address. The fact that the message was routed via the anonymous remailer in Finland made me feel a little more secure. My message read:
"Dear Little Jennifer: I saw your post and enjoyed it very much. Your signature makes me think that we might have a lot in common. If by chance you enjoy the more youthful aspects of our hobby, please e-mail me. Your friend (I hope), Little Melissa."
It was the next day (damn remailer!) before I had a response.
"Dear Little Melissa: Yes, I think we might have something in common, as I do enjoy the 'more youthful aspects' (as you put it) of crossdressing. To be blunt, I enjoy dressing as a little girl."
Oh God! My heart started pounding. I wasn't alone! I wasn't the only nut who did this! There was someone else! I continued reading.
"I am 40 years old, married, and a lawyer. I find that living a second life as a 10-year-old girl helps me escape from the pressures of my career. My wife knows about my admittedly unusual interests and is entirely supportive. In fact, she is the leader for a group of us who enjoy pretending we are little girls. If you are interested, perhaps we could meet in person and I could tell you more about it. Your friend, Little Jennifer."
A GROUP?! A whole group of men who enjoy pretending they are little girls! My head was awhirl. My God! I never in my wildest dreams imagined such a thing might be possible!
But to meet him! I'd never done such a thing. In fact, I had resisted meeting other crossdressers I had contacted via the computer. First off, it was clear that many fellows were looking for sexual situations, something I just wasn't interested in. Secondly, many of them seemed - well, forgive me, but - a little strange (I know: look at the pot calling the kettle black). Like they were thinking with their gonads and not their brains. New as I was to all this, it was quite frankly a little scary for me.
But this fellow seemed so ... normal. A reg'lar fella. Like me. I HAD to meet him, to learn more. But before I did, I'd have to speak to Becky. I'd been honest with her so far, and didn't want to start sneaking around behind her back now.
That evening, when the girls were asleep, I showed her the message from "Little Jennifer". It was an eternity before she looked up from the printout.
"You want to take this outside our marriage?" she asked softly. Her tone told me that she was hurt, but I knew that part of the hurt she felt was guilt. Guilt that she was unable to give me what I needed, particularly when she read of how supportive Little Jennifer's wife was.
"Darling," I said, taking her hands in mine. "You know there is nothing sexual about this for me, that it's not like it was when I was younger. It's just a, a ... a hobby, that's all, like stamp collecting or birding. A very unusual hobby, I'll admit, one you wouldn't want to tell the neighbors about. But a hobby nonetheless. A way of recouping and refreshing myself mentally. Please, darling. I want to meet this fellow. Find out if there's anything here for me. But I need your blessing."
She looked into my eyes a long time. She knew how I was suffering ... the stress at work had only intensified since I'd been passed over for promotion. And she knew how refreshed, how happy I had been, after that week as a little girl. She was torn inside. Torn between the mores of her traditional conservative upbringing, which told her this was wrong, and her compassionate nature, which told her it was right.
"Tommy, when you first shared this with me, I told you that you should do what you needed to do, but to never let me see you that way. I still feel that way. Meet this person, if you must. Join his little group. But, darling, you must understand. His wife may be able to be supportive and participate, but I can not. I just can't!"
As I sat down at the computer, I, too, felt mixed emotions. I was ecstatic at the thought of meeting a fellow traveler, someone who would understand how I felt. And yet at the same time, I felt guilty for doing something that clearly distressed my beloved wife so. Hands shaking, I pecked out an e-mail message to Little Jennifer, stating that I would like very much to meet and learn more about his group.
Chapter 4: My First Lair Meeting!
It took several more rounds of e-mail before we settled on a time and place to meet. A respectable Greektown restaurant, after work on Friday. He described himself and what he planned to wear and I did the same. I told Becky that I would be home late Friday night. She nodded, knowing what was up.
I drove into the city after work that Friday and let the valet park the Buick. I checked my coat at the door and picked him out right away. A tall, distinguished looking fellow with salt-and-pepper hair, seated at a small booth near the rear. Brooks Brothers suit, white shirt, power tie. I walked up and said, "Bob Phillips?"
He looked up and smiled broadly. "Yes, I'm Bob Phillips. You must be Tommy Johnson." He stood and we shook hands. A firm grip. Hard to believe he was a 10-year-old girl at heart! "Please, sit down."
We ordered drinks and a plate of saganaki, making small talk about our lives. After the waiter had flamed the cheese (opa!!), Bob said, "Well, let me tell you a little bit about our group." Though the restaurant was not yet busy, he was careful to keep his voice low and discuss the group only in the most general terms. "There are three other members besides myself. As I mentioned, my wife serves as our leader. We hold meetings on the second and fourth Fridays of each month at my home here in the city. It's all strictly social; nothing 'adult' is allowed. We're quite firm about that."
"Well, what do you do at meetings?" I asked.
"Oh, we're pretty informal. Mostly, it's an opportunity to get together and let our hair down, so to speak. A chance to escape the pressures of reality and act out the alternate roles we've developed for ourselves. We're having a meeting this evening. Would you like to attend?"
"Oh, God, I'd love to! But, I haven't got any ... anything to wear."
"No problem," he said, eying me up and down. "I'm sure we have something there that will fit you. I have to run along now to get things ready. We'll expect you at 7:30. Here's the address; it's not far from here." And with that, he left.
My head was awhirl. I ordered dinner, though I was in such a state that I barely tasted it. My god! I was actually going to meet a bunch of other fellows who enjoyed dressing up as little girls! It was incredible!
After I'd paid my tab, I reclaimed my coat and walked the few blocks to his high-rise. I buzzed from the lobby and a woman's voice answered, telling me to come right up. The apartment was one of four on the thirtieth floor. When I got there, the door opened. A woman in her late thirties - statuesque, blonde, with lively eyes and a broad smile - stood there. She was dressed in a full red and white plaid skirt that came to mid-calf, a white silk tailored blouse that emphasized her full bosom, nylons, and shiny black pumps with a four inch heel. "You must be Tommy. I'm Marcia Phillips. Please come in. Bob's still getting dressed; he'll be out in a few minutes. Won't you sit down?" Once we were seated, she continued. "So you're interested in joining the KGC Feminine Kittens Club?"
"Yes, though I didn't know that was what it's called. Bob hadn't mentioned a name. What does the 'KGC' stand for?"
"It stands for 'Kind, Gentle, and Caring'. All the things little girls are supposed to be. It was started by a fellow out east, for folks who want to enjoy all the good things about being a little girl. He publishes a magazine and serves as sort of a clearinghouse for lairs all over the country - ."
I couldn't believe what I'd just heard. "Excuse me," I said, "Did you say, 'all over the country'?"
"Why, yes. There are over 200 lairs now, and nearly a thousand members overall ..."
I couldn't believe it! A thousand men in this country who liked to pretend they were little girls! I wasn't alone! I wasn't the only nut who'd ever done this! There were a thousand of us! I had never dreamed ...
Just then, down the hall, I heard the tap-tap-tap of hard-soled shoes on parquet flooring. I turned just as Little Jennifer made her appearance. I was stunned! Looking at her was positively disorienting. Everything about her said she was a sweet little girl, from the pretty jumper in a red and white plaid that matched Marcia's skirt, to the long blonde hair held back by a matching hairband; from the stiff petticoats peeking out underneath her hem, to the red string tie on the Peter Pan collar of her white blouse; from her ruffly white anklets, to the shiny black Mary Janes on her feet. She was the very image of little girlhood ... except for being nearly six feet tall!
Jennifer skipped over to Marcia, threw her arms around the woman's neck, and hugged her. "Hi, Mommy!" she chirped cheerily, in a falsetto attempt at a child's voice.
"Hello, sweetheart. This is Melissa." I started at the sound of the girl's name I had adopted. "She wants to join the Kitten Club. Why don't you see if you can find her something pretty to wear while I wait for the other Kittens to arrive."
"OK, Mommy!" Taking my hand, the ersatz little girl chirped, "C'mon! Let's go to my room!"
She skipped ahead of me, past what must have been the master bedroom, to a second room. There was a little pink sign decorated with tiny flowers on which was painted "Jennifer's Room". As we entered, I saw that this was indeed a little girl's room! In fact, it looked very much like my daughters' rooms! The centerpiece was a huge ruffly pink canopy bed, atop which sat a dozen or more stuffed animals. The walls and carpet and ruffly curtains were all pink. There was a white wooden dresser and a matching vanity table with a big mirror on it. In one corner was a huge dollhouse, and next to it a big pink toy chest. On the walls were pictures of kittens and puppies and other things little girls like.
Once inside, Bob regained his natural voice. "I hope I didn't shock you too badly, Tommy. Springing Jennifer on you like that."
"No, no, ... well, yes, but it was a pleasant shock. God, look at you! You look GREAT! You really look like a little girl! Except for being so tall, that is."
"Yes, well, that's something all of us 'transgenerational' crossdressers have to contend with."
"Transgenerational?"
"A subdivision of crossdressing that involves males who not only like to dress as females, but who also want to dress as a female who is significantly different in age. Technically, I guess, this would include middle-aged guys dressing up as old ladies, the Mrs. Doubtfire bit. But ordinarily, it means adult men dressing as little girls or teenage girls."
"Why do you like it, Bob?" I asked bluntly.
"Well, for me, and a lot of us, it's sheer escapism. We don't like being adult males. We don't like the responsibilities, the worries, and the stress that go with it. I also think that for many of us, the fact that little girls are basically asexual is a comfort. We crossdressers often have a hard time coming to grips with our sexuality. You know: if we're pretending to be women, we should naturally seek the romantic company of men. But as men, we're uncomfortable with that idea." I remembered my own confusion in this area, when I had first crossdressed as a teen. "By pretending to be a girl who has not yet reached the age of sexual awareness, we can avoid that problem. How about you?"
"Oh, it's pretty much the same. High pressure job, the whole bit. I found that dressing as a little girl - pretending to be a little girl - really helped me cope."
"Speaking, of dressing ... let's see if we can find something for you to wear tonight. This is the official Kitten Club uniform I'm wearing by the way. Marcia makes them; she's quite a seamstress. I don't have an extra, so we'll just find a pretty party dress for you for tonight. Then, if everything goes well, she can measure you for your own. Here, how about this?"
He stood at the closet, holding up the most beautiful little girl's party dress I had ever seen. It had a royal blue velvet bodice with jewel neckline, a full multi-tiered skirt in sparkly white taffeta, and long balloon sleeves of the same material. It was gorgeous, a dress fit for a princess! And it was HUGE!
"I-i-it's beautiful!" I gasped, my eyes wide. "I'd love to wear it, if it's alright with you."
"Certainly, certainly." Here, you'll need these as well." He handed me a clean pair of white cotton panties, a rustly crinoline petticoat, an unopened pair of women's opaque white tights, and a enormous pair of black patent leather Mary Janes. "There are a number of wigs on the top shelf of the closet. Help yourself. And when you're ready, come on out. I think some of the other girls have already arrived."
Once he'd left, I stripped down and began to dress. First, the panties, then the opaque white tights. I stepped into the petticoat and pulled it up to my waist. It was a little large on me, but a safety pin easily took up the slack. Then, I unzipped that beautiful dress and pulled it on over my head, pushing my arms through the sleeves. I zipped it up, then spent several minutes just running my hands over it, enjoying the smooth softness of the velvet bodice and the crisp rustliness of the taffeta skirt. I was in heaven! Finally, I was garbed in genuine (well, almost) little girl clothing, instead of a makeshift and imagination.
I strapped on the shiny black shoes, relishing the look of that broad strap across my instep. Then, I turned to the closet to peruse the wig selection. It only took me a moment to fixate on a cute little strawberry blonde number. It was parted from ear to ear, creating bangs in front. The back part was about shoulder length, with some of the hair gathered up into a short little ponytail that sat high up on the back. Having already been styled so nicely, it was a simple matter to just slip it on carefully and tug it into place. There!
I turned and looked at myself in the mirror. It was MARVELOUS! Again, I never would have fooled a blind man, but it FELT so damn wonderful! I was really dressed as a little girl, from the skin out! The dress, the petticoat, the hair, the tights, the shoes ... it all combined to create a most wonderful sensation of girlishness.
Well, this is it, I thought. Let's go meet the group!
When I got to the end of the hallway, I paused, suddenly feeling very shy, much as a real little girl might feel under such circumstances. In the living room, I could see Bob and three others, all dressed in the same plaid uniform. Marcia came to me at once, put a reassuring arm around my shoulder and said, "Come, Melissa! Let me introduce you to the other little girls." We stepped out into the large sunken living room and she said, "Girls, I have someone I'd like you to meet. This is Melissa Johnson."
She then proceeded to introduce me to the other members. Each was introduced in their little girl persona; it was only later that I learned more about their real identities.
"Ashley" Gordon was actually a 43-year-old skinny balding accountant named Johnny. He was married but had never told his wife about his predilection. He was definitely the one who was least comfortable with crossdressing, and extremely fearful of exposure. This carried over into Ashley's character, making her quite a shy and fearful child.
"Rosita" Martinez was actually a 30-year-old paralegal named Frank. He was small, no more than 5-foot-5, wiry, and dark. As Rosita, he wore a long dark wig pulled into a "top-knot" style ponytail atop his head. While Frank was serious and highly intelligent, Rosita was very bubbly, very vivacious, and a bit air-headed.
The last member of the trio was perhaps the most amazing because Stephanie Woods really was a girl! Not the child she enjoyed playing, but rather a 26-year-old environmental consultant. However, she really looked as though she were only 10 or 12 years old! She was a petite four-foot-ten and 90 lbs, with a sunny face splashed by freckles, one of those tiny elf-like women whom puberty seems to have passed by. When pretending to be a child, she tied her long straight red hair with satin ribbon into a beautiful pair of ponytails and took on a most cheerful personality. She had an enormous wardrobe of real honest-to-gosh little girl clothes bought off-the-rack. I was so envious of her, being an adult who looked so childlike. However, I learned that what seemed a blessing to me was also a bane. Though she much enjoyed age-regression play, she didn't like where it went with the men she dated. Most were would-be child molesters who saw in her a chance to act out their bizarre fantasies without really doing anything illegal. After awhile, she'd gotten tired of it and sought refuge in the innocent asexuality of the Kittens Club.
All three were dressed in the official Kitten Club uniform: red and white plaid jumper with a stiff rustly crinoline petticoat underneath, white blouse with Peter Pan collar, skinny red string tie, ruffly white anklets, and shiny black Mary Janes. Once I'd been introduced, Marcia - I mean, "Mrs. Phillips" - said, "Alright, girls, lets start our meeting by reciting the KGC Feminine Kittens Pledge."
While I stood off to one side, the three members stood in a line in front of a long sofa, facing the Lair Mother. They raised their right hands with three fingers spread, the pinky and thumb touching and recited in unison, "On my honor, I will try to be kind, gentle, and caring in everything I do. I will do my best to be a good little girl at all times, to obey my Lair Mother, to be a sister to all girls and a credit to true girlhood." I later learned that the three fingers stood for the three attributes: kind, gentle, and caring.
"Very nice, girls. Please be seated." The four Kittens sat down on the sofa, carefully brushing their skirts forward in a most girlish fashion. I sat in an easy chair off to one side. "Now, this week when I call the roll and collect the dues, please answer with the name of your favorite storybook and why it's your favorite. Ashley Gordon?"
Johnny stood, stepped forward and dropped a dime into a brightly decorated juice can marked "Kitten Dues". He turned to face the others, clutching the hem of his skirt nervously. He smiled shyly and said quietly, "I'm Ashley Gordon and my favorite storybook is 'Ramona Quimby, Age 8' by Beverly Cleary, on account of that's how old I am."
"Very nice, Ashley. Rosita Martinez?"
Frank repeated the ritual, saying, "I'm, like, Rosita Martinez - of course, you know that, duh! - and, like, my favorite storybook is this one of the Babysitter Club books, only I can't remember which one it is exactly - I, like, totally have them all, you know. They are so, so cool! Anyway, it's this one where Claudia - she's the one with real long dark hair like me, only she's Japanese - is babysitting these twins and she has to --"
"Thank you, Rosita. You can save the book report for school. Stephanie Woods?"
Stephanie dropped her dime in the can and chirped, "I'm Stephanie Woods and my favorite storybook is 'Little House on the Prairie' by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I like it cuz it's about the old days when girls were all lots nicer and sweeter, and because she gets to be outside all the time with the flowers and the trees and the animals and everything."
"Thank you Stephanie. And finally, Jennifer Phillips?"
Bob stood, chipped in his dime, and turned to face us. "I'm Jennifer Phillips and my favorite storybook is 'Crossdressed Classroom' by Tommy Johnson. I liked it because all the boys in this fifth-grade class had to put on ..."
Mrs. Phillips cut him short, her mock scowl scarcely concealing the amusement in her voice. "That will be all, Jennifer. You and I will discuss appropriate reading material for little ladies after the others leave."
Bob sat down, looking hurt, and whispered petulantly to Ashley, "Well, it is so my favorite!"
"All members present. And we also have a guest this evening. Melissa, would you like to share your favorite storybook with us?"
I stood as the others had. "I'm Melissa Johnson and my favorite storybook is 'Charlotte's Web' by E. B. White. I liked how kind and nice Wilbur and Charlotte and everybody were to each other."
"Thank you, Jennifer, that's very sweet. Alright, Kittens. Tonight for our special activity, we are going to bake cookies. It's important that little girls learn how to be helpful in the kitchen, and it will be lots of fun, too!"
We went to the kitchen, where each Kitten put on a ruffly white apron. Just as though we were real inexperienced little girls, Mrs. Phillips showed us how to measure out the flour and sugar and vanilla and chocolate chips, and how to crack eggs without getting shells in the mix; how to use the electric mixer, how to spoon out the dough, and how to remove the cookie sheets from the oven safely. Afterwards, we all sat around the big kitchen table, enjoying the still warm and gooey chocolate chip cookies with tall glasses of cold milk. It was such a simple, childish thing, but I don't know when I'd had more fun!
While the others cleaned up the kitchen, Marcia took me aside and stepped out of character, speaking earnestly. "Well, Tommy? What do you think? Would you like to join our group?"
"Is this a fairly typical meeting?"
"Yes, we open each meeting with our little rituals, then have some sort of fun activity. Occasionally, we have special events or meet elsewhere. For instance, Frank had a slumber party one night last spring at his place. But it is always very sweet, very wholesome. We really are sincere in wanting to encourage and emphasize kind, gentle, caring behavior in all facets of our lives."
"Then, yes; I'd like very much to join."
"Well, the Kittens will have to vote on it. You realize you're the first man to apply for membership since Bob, Johnny, and Frank formed the lair three years ago. Stephanie joined a year later, but as a real girl, she didn't represent much of a potential threat."
With her words, all my fears of rejection came welling up within me again, my fear of being too weird for even crossdressers to tolerate. So I represented a potential threat, eh? Well, I guess I could see that. They didn't know me from Adam. I could be an escaped sex offender, an ax murderer, a blackmailer, or a spy from some right-wing moral crusade.
Once the meeting had reconvened in the living room, Mrs. Phillips said, "Melissa, would you come up here please?" I went and stood before the assembled Kittens. "Kittens, little Melissa would like to join our Lair. Melissa, is there anything you'd like to tell us about yourself before the Kittens vote?"
"Um ...," I drawled, gripping the hem of my party dress and nervously trying to think of what to say to assuage any fears or doubts they might harbor about me. "Your club seems real nice, and I think it'd be a lot of fun to join, if that's OK with you. I really like being a little girl, 'cuz little girls always try to be nice and kind and friendly. They're never mean to nobody, and try to never hurt nobody's feelings. Little girls don't hit nobody or call them names. They share nice and always try to be helpful. I think that the world would be a lot happier place if everybody tried to be more like little girls."
Mrs. Phillips turned to the Kittens and asked if they'd like to ask me anything. Frank raised his hand and asked, "So, like, what do you like to do?"
"Oh, lotsa stuff. I like to color in my coloring books, and play with my dollies, and watch TV. You know ..."
Then Johnny raised his hand timidly and asked, "Does your mommy know you want to join?"
I knew what he meant. "Yes, and she said it's OK, even though she doesn't think I should, on account of she won't be able to help out."
The Lair Mother looked around. "Any other questions for little Melissa? No? Alright then. Melissa, if you'll go down to Jennifer's room and wait, the Kittens will vote on your membership."
My stomach was all in knots as I walked down the hall. Behind me, I could hear the animated echoes of their shrill voices, but could not make out the words. What if they voted no? What if they wouldn't accept me as a Kitten?
I had scarcely gotten to the door when Jennifer came skipping up behind me. "Come on!" she chirped brightly. "C'mon!"
I followed her back to the living room, my heart pounding. The group was all smiles as we entered. Mrs. Phillips put her hand on my shoulder and said, "Girls, let's form the Kitten Friendship Circle."
The four Kittens and their Lair Mother joined hands in a circle around me. I raised my right hand in the Kitten Salute and repeated the New Kitten's Promise after Mrs. Phillips: "I, Melissa Johnson ..."
"I, Melissa Johnson ..."
"Do solemnly promise ..." "... to be a true and faithful Kitten ..." "... To be kind, gentle, and caring in everything I do ..." "... To respect my sister Kittens and their feelings ..." "... and to always obey the Lair Mother."
Mrs. Phillips beamed. "Congratulations, Melissa! You are now an official member of the Near North Lair of the KGC Feminine Kittens Club!"
With that, the Friendship Circle closed around me and all four Kittens hugged me warmly in a sisterly embrace.
After the meeting, Marcia measured me for my uniform, which she promised to have ready for the next meeting. As she did so, we talked.
"Marcia?" I asked. "You seem so very accepting of Bob's wanting to dress as a little girl ..."
"And your wife doesn't right?" She smiled, adjusting the yellow tape measure around my chest. "Well, I wasn't terribly understanding at first either. I came home unexpectedly from a business trip and caught him all decked out in a gorgeous little girl's party dress - the one you wore tonight, come to think of it - and nearly died of shock. I didn't know what to think. Was he demented? Was he a child molester? Was he gay? I knew about female impersonators and drag queens and such. There were a couple of them next door back when I lived in The Village; I'd even gone to see that old movie "Glen or Glenda?" at the Jewelbox one night. But I had never in all my life realized there were men who dressed as little girls!"
"Yes, I had the same reaction when I first dressed as a little girl. This terrible feeling of loneliness, that I was the only lunatic in the entire world who'd ever done anything so bizarre."
Marcia laughed as she scribbled some figures on a notepad. "Yes, Bob said the same thing. But then he found out about the Kitten Club and got hooked up with Frank and Johnny."
"So, anyway, how did you come to grips with it? How did Bob win you over, so to speak?"
She paused and looked thoughtful. "Well, there wasn't any big revolution or anything. Just gradually, over time, I realized that Little Jennifer was an integral part of who Bob was. That many of the personality traits I found so endearing - his warmth, his kindness, his generosity, all the things that made him so different from other men - were due to the little girl inside him. That without Jennifer to act as a safety valve, Bob tended to become an aggressive, hyper-competitive, in-your-face Neanderthal. I didn't need a brick wall to fall on me to realize that in order to have the man I truly loved, I had to take Little Jennifer as part of the package. Of course, once we learned that we couldn't have children ..." Her voice trailed off. "I guess Little Jennifer and the other Kittens have been something of a surrogate for me."
Driving home, I mulled over everything that had happened this evening. It had been quite a night! A real turning point in my life. I had found men who were like me, and they had accepted me! I wasn't alone, I wasn't a weirdo ... well, at least not to them.
It was after midnight when I pulled the Buick up our driveway. Megan, Brittany, and Tiffany had all long since been tucked into their beds, but when I got to our bedroom, I found the light still on and Becky reading. I came and sat at the edge of the bed by her.
"So ... how was your evening?" she asked, smiling tentatively. I could see she was dying of curiosity, yet fearful of what she might hear, still torn between her empathetic nature and her orthodox upbringing. I knew that this was a critical point in our relationship, that I had to handle the situation with the utmost care.
And so, I told her everything. I'd been honest with her so far, and was not about to start varnishing the truth at this point. Not that I could have lied to her; she is so attuned to others, so empathetic, that untruths are immediately transparent to her, even from a stranger, not to mention me.
I laid it all out: who was there, what they were like, what we had done, what was said. I acknowledged her concerns and fears and tried to show that they were groundless. In particular, I quoted my conversation with Marcia almost verbatim. That seemed to have some effect on her; she seemed to find Marcia's childlessness particularly poignant. Thanking me for my honesty, she turned off the light and we went to sleep.
Chapter 5: Kitten Tales
The next morning, I took out a post office box and sent in my membership form and dues to the KGC Feminine Kittens Club "national office" out east. I received confirmation and the first issue of the club magazine just before the next meeting. The magazine was wonderful, filled with articles, fiction stories, photographs, and personal ads from transgenerational crossdressers all around the world. Though some, like the fellow in Japan, made extremely beautiful and realistic little girls, most were like me and the other kittens: trying earnestly, but not likely to fool a blind man. I found that reassuring, somehow.
I arrived at Bob's apartment early for the next meeting. I'd been beside myself all week, so looking forward to getting my official Kitten Club uniform! And I wasn't disappointed!
Marcia took me straight back to Little Jennifer's room and showed it to me. I was so enthralled, I could scarcely wait for her to leave the room so I could undress and put it on! In addition to the uniform she had sewn for me, Marcia had gone shopping on my behalf and purchased a number of other essential items. These were all lying in a pile on the bed. In their place, I left a plain envelope with enough money in it to cover Marcia's expenses and effort. They would go home with me tonight in a gym bag I had brought along for just that purpose, and be hidden away from the girls in the attic.
After pulling on a pair of pink cotton panties, I slipped into first a pair of women's opaque white tights and then a pair of skin-tone pantyhose. The tights hid my copious leg hair (Bob and Frank could shave their bodies regularly, but not I!), while the sheer pantyhose created the impression that my legs were childishly smooth. Once I had shimmied into a cool slippery white tricot slip, Marcia returned to help me dress. First, she helped me into the crisp white cotton blouse with the childishly round Peter Pan collar; the tiny lace trim flanking the buttons made it seem especially girlish. As she tied the little red string tie around the collar, I relished the way that the straps and bodice of the slip could be made out through the fabric. Next, she held a stiff rustly crinoline petticoat while I stepped into it, pulling it up around my waist. Then came the pretty little jumper with its schoolgirl red-and-white plaid. The skirt flared so nicely with that stiff petticoat beneath it!
Being careful not to crush my skirts beneath me, I sat on the edge of the bed to pull on a pair of little white anklets with broad ruffled cuffs, after which I strapped on my very own pair of shiny black Mary Janes. The effect was magical! If I squinted just a tad, the pantyhose did look like bare smooth legs and the desired footwear effect was achieved!
The final step was the wig. I had asked Marcia to buy and style me one just like the one Bob had lent me last time: parted from ear to ear, bangs in front, with some of the shoulder-length back portion caught up into a short little ponytail that sat high at the back. And she had not disappointed: it sat there awaiting me on its styrofoam head. The only difference from Bob's was the color: mine was a deep brunette, more like my own natural color. Though we all dream of the Blonde Ideal, we don't all have the complexion and eyebrows to pull it off convincingly!
This was it! My very first Lair Meeting as a full-fledged Kitten! I went out to the living room to meet my sister Kittens and Mrs. Phillips called our group to order. Together with Jennifer, Ashley, Rosita, and Stephanie, I made the three-fingered Feminine Kittens sign and recited the KGC Feminine Kittens Pledge. I really liked pledging to be kind, gentle, and caring; it made me feel good. Even if I weren't a transgenerational crossdresser, it would be a goal worth striving for!
And it was clear that the promise was not a hollow one. Our activity for the evening was to make little Halloween-themed goody baskets for a nearby retirement home. We cut orange and black construction paper with our blunt-tipped safety scissors; colored pumpkins and witches and black cats with our crayons; and got paste and glitter EVERYWHERE! With the baskets, we made a big "Happy Halloween" card and signed out Kitten names to it. Of course, we wouldn't be able to deliver our thoughtfulness personally; our Lair Mother would do that for us, saying that it was from a group of neighborhood children.
At the end of the meeting, as we cleaned up our mess, Stephanie handed out little orange envelopes. Opening them showed a children's style invitation: a craggy tree with a smiling jack-o lantern at its base and a wide-eyed owl saying "Whoooo????" Inside, it said, "YOU! Please come to my Halloween costume party! Where? Stephanie Woods' house, 92055 Burlington Ave., Apt. #2, Parkridge Forest. When? Friday, October 25, 7:30 PM till ? P.S. Mommies welcome."
When I got home, I once again told Becky everything about the meeting. Again, I think our gesture of kindness to the folks at the retirement home surprised her; perhaps she thought such a group more likely to watch porn videos or stage an orgy. My excitement over my new uniform clearly came through, and she asked to see it. I removed it from the gym bag and held it up for her to see. She looked at it a long time before she smiled wanly and said, "It's very sweet, dear." Well, that was something, I guess
I finished my recounting by showing her Stephanie's invitation. She looked at it a long time before looking up at me.
"Stephanie's the real girl?" I nodded yes. She looked at it a bit longer. "And I - I would be a 'mommy'?" I said yes, that's how we usually referred to wives.
"Would you like me to go to the party with you?"
My jaw dropped and my eyes popped. I couldn't believe my ears. Becky was asking to go the party - to a KGC Feminine Kittens Club lair meeting! "Darling! Of course I want you to come with me! But I never dreamed ..."
She looked embarrassed. "I know, darling. But I've been doing a lot of thinking about all this. If this is truly part of who you are, then I have to learn to accept it. If this is something that's important in your life, then I - well, I have to at least find out a little more about it." She added, "Besides, it's a Halloween party. It should be a little easier for me to see men dressed as - dressed up, in that context." Though she didn't say it, I also suspected that she would feel a little more comfortable meeting the group if she herself were "in disguise".
Words cannot describe the sheer rapturous joy I felt at that moment! I knew how hard this was - would be - for Becky, and that only one thing could account for her change of heart: the fact that she loved me! "Oh, darling!" I moaned, staring deep into those beautiful eyes. "I love you!" We embraced and kissed, and before either of us knew what was happening, we were locked deep in one of the warmest and most romantic lovemaking sessions since our honeymoon!
Chapter 6: Happy Halloween!
Those next two weeks, I was simultaneously on Cloud 9 and racked with anxiety. I was so excited that Becky was beginning to accept my need to sometimes be a little girl and yet, terrified at the chance of rejection that came with it. All sorts of horrible scenes crowded my imagination: Becky, shocked at the sight of grown men in little girl drag, getting hysterical, screaming insults, storming out, ruining everything. But like they say, you can't win if you don't gamble.
We checked out a number of costume shops, searching for just the right costumes: something that would let me express my little girl side, and yet still tie us together as a couple. Finally, at a little shop on the near west side, we found the perfect pair of costumes!
Alice in Wonderland and the White Rabbit.
I was in Seventh Heaven when Becky agreed to the choice with some enthusiasm. Lewis Carroll's classic story had always been a favorite of ours, and since I had become a transgenerational crossdresser, the classic girlishness of Alice's attire had really come to appeal to me. The costume was a high-quality piece of work (it should have been, for what a single night's rent cost!), and included two stiff rustly crinoline petticoats, the classic blue frock and matching satin hair ribbon, a darling white pinafore with eyelet trim, black patent-leather Mary Janes with a broad strap and gold buckle, and the crowning touch, a gorgeous blonde wig that was nearly waist-length! The renter had only to add a pair of opaque white tights, and voila! Alice in Wonderland!
Becky's White Rabbit costume consisted of a red-and-black plaid wool waistcoat, matching kneebreeches, and jacket. Under the kneebreeches were footed leggings made of genuine bleached rabbit fur. Also of the same material were a pair of paw-like gloves, and a close fitting cowl with two long floppy ears, which fastened around the head. Atop this was an old-fashion silk top hat, held in place with Velcro. A little pink rabbit nose complete with long catgut whiskers was held in place over Becky's own nose with spirit gum, giving her face a most comical look. Finally, the pocket of her waistcoat contained a watch the size of a saucer, attached to a long gold chain.
The evening of the party, my sister Joni picked up the girls and took them to her house for the evening. We then dressed in our costumes. Becky helped me dress first. I was pleased that she showed no overt hesitation, as I stood there in women's panties and tights and she helped me into the petticoats, dress, pinafore, and wig. She even applied a little makeup to my face. Once she had finished, she stepped back and looked me up and down.
I was dying inside. "Well??" I pleaded. "What do you think?"
After what seemed forever, her face broke into a wry grin. She shook her head a little, rolled her eyes heavenward and said, as if exasperated, "Ohhh! I have to admit, you make a perfectly darling Alice in Wonderland!"
My heart leapt! I was winning her over! She had seen me crossdressed as a little girl for the very first time and had not rejected me! In fact, she'd been complimentary! I felt like I really was in Wonderland!
Then I helped her into her costume. Though she and I are nearly the same height, that rabbit costume - with its thick fur, long ears, and tall hat - made her seem far larger than I. This pleased me greatly, as it made me feel even more like a little girl.
We drove to the suburb where Stephanie lived, generating plenty of astonished looks from other motorists on the Tri-State. I'm not sure what Becky felt, but I was thrilled! To be actually out in public, dressed as a little girl! God bless Halloween!
When we got to Stephanie's apartment, she greeted us at the door. In a very clever turn on all of us, she was dressed as a little BOY! As a Cub Scout, to be exact. The uniform had been her little brother's, and as a result, she looked totally authentic, from the blue and gold cap under which she'd tucked her long red hair, to the gold neckerchief held in place with the little brass slide, to the little blue uniform shirt with its colorful patches and arrow points on the breast pocket. She really looked like a freckle-faced 10-year-old boy! In fact, for a moment, I feared we had gone to the wrong door!
As soon as she saw us, she clasped her hands to her face, smiled broadly and laughed. "Oh, what darling costumes! You two look wonderful!" She extended a cordial hand to Becky. "You must be Becky! I'm Stephanie Woods. We're so glad you could join us tonight! Please, come in!"
Just then, Bob and Marcia walked up. Bob was dressed as a cheerleader, or perhaps more accurately, as a little girl dressed as a cheerleader. He wore a heavy red miniskirt with black box pleats, a red sweater with a megaphone emblem on the front, matching red anklets, and little black tennis shoes. He wore a long blonde wig very similar to mine, held in place with a black hairband. As an obvious complement to her husband's costume, Marcia was dressed as a football player, her statuesque curves obscured beneath shoulder pads and a numbered jersey, her bouffant hair concealed beneath a Bears' helmet, her makeup-less features scarcely visible behind the face-mask.
I introduced them to Becky. Much to my relief, she smiled graciously. "It's so nice to meet you both. Tommy has told me so much about you. He really enjoys the group meetings you host."
Marcia took Becky by the arm and led her away, saying, "Come, dear, let me introduce you to the others." As she did, Bob handed me a cup of punch and we watched from near the door.
"Well, Tommy ... how's it going?"
"Well," I answered, "So far, so good."
Looking around the small but brightly decorated apartment, I saw that Marcia was introducing Becky to Frank and Johnny. Frank looked GREAT! He (or rather Rosita) dressed as many little girls did that year, as Princess Jasmine from the popular Aladdin movie, complete with turquoise-blue harem pants, a matching bare-midriff top, pointy-toed slippers, gold arm-band and matching earrings. The long dark wig he always wore as Rosita was crowned by a gold tiara with a large faux jewel, and pulled pack into a long thick ponytail tied at both base and end. Becky later told me that he looked so convincing, that she got confused and thought that Frank was the real girl and Stephanie one of the guys!
Johnny was on a similar wavelength to Frank, but went with a more traditional heroine, a perennial Halloween favorite with little girls everywhere: Minnie Mouse! From the bright-red full- skirted dress with its big white polka dots, to the black tights, to the oversized yellow shoes and white gloves, to the big black mouse-ears atop his head, little Ashley looked like a cartoon character come to life.
The party featured lots of good old-fashioned fun: carving jack-o'lanterns, singing pumpkin carols, bobbing for apples, playing party games like Pin-the-Hat-on-the-Witch and Ghost-in-the- Graveyard. We turned on the TV and all watched "Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein" (a scary movie but not TOO scary for little girls) while munching on popcorn and caramel apples. Afterwards, we turned the lights down low and Stephanie told this creepy Tales-from-the Crypt kind of story about a lady who was murdered and all chopped up, while passing around what were supposedly her body parts: of course, the "eyeballs" were peeled grapes, the "fingers" carrot sticks, the "brains" a lump of cold sticky spaghetti, and so on. Like real little girls, we all shivered and squealed in delight with each new item offered.
Much to my pleasure, Becky really got into the spirit of the proceedings. Of course, her class had just had their own Halloween party that day at school, so she had all sorts of great ideas for activities. She even recited from memory, while holding a flashlight up to her face, that traditional "Little Orphan Annie" Halloween poem ("... 'cause the goblins will get you if you don't watch out!").
At one point during the evening, I noticed Becky and Marcia in the kitchen, deep in earnest conversation. Marcia said something to Stephanie, who left and returned a moment later with a large photo album. Soon, Marcia was leafing through the album, pointing things out to Becky. I presumed it was a Kitten Club scrapbook, and Marcia was discussing the club with Becky. Bless her, she knew how badly I needed Becky's approval, and was doing all she could to help.
It was a very enjoyable evening, the most fun I'd had in a long time! It really was wonderful to let your hair down and play like a child again!
It was quite late before we left to drive home. As soon as we were in the car, Becky smiled and said, "Your friends are very nice, Tommy. Not what I expected at all." She let out a little laugh. "That Rosita is such a character! What an airhead! She'd fit right in with some of the girls in my class! And Marcia ... she really is a warm and wonderful woman. I think she and I could get to be good friends."
That was certainly good news! "Yes, I saw you two talking in the kitchen for quite a while."
Becky's voice got a touch more serious. "Yes, she was telling me about the club and its activities, showing me pictures of past meetings and events. Again, it just isn't what I imagined. It's so, so ... wholesome, and innocent, and sweet. And in my heart, I know it's not a bad thing for men to want to be those things. God knows, most women PRAY that men could become a little kinder, gentler, and more caring! It's just that it's so, so ..."
"Unconventional?" She nodded. "Well, that's why we're discrete about it and keep it to ourselves. You know the reaction that you, my wife, experienced when you learned of it; imagine how strangers would react."
Becky was quiet for awhile. "You know, Marcia said that in addition to the regular Lair Meetings, you often have special events, activities designed to help the members really experience the life of a little girl."
"That's right. Like the Halloween party tonight, and birthday parties, and sleepovers. Things real little girls do."
"Well, I was thinking ... maybe you and your friends would like to go to school."
I nearly drove off the tollway.
"Wh-wh-what do you mean?" I asked, all flustered.
"Well, it's just that those uniforms you all wear look so much like schoolgirl uniforms, that it got me to thinking that you'd all probably enjoy the opportunity to BE little schoolgirls."
My pulse was racing at the thought as I stammered, "B-b-but, how??"
"The school is totally empty most Friday nights, as the janitorial staff cleans up on Saturday morning instead, and by Friday afternoon, no teacher wants to hang around that place any longer than necessary! I have building keys. We can go to my classroom; I will be the teacher and you will be my pupils."
I could not believe it! This was beyond my wildest fantasies! Not only was Becky willing to accept my hobby, she was actually taking it upon herself to further it!
"Becky, I-I don't know what to say! This is INCREDIBLE!" My face obviously showed my joy.
"Well, Marcia really helped me to see what a good thing the club is, how there's no reason for a wife to feel threatened by it. I love you, Tommy, and I want you to be happy, because that's the only way I can be happy!"
This was it! My dream had come true! My wife had accepted my desires to dress as a little girl! I was in heaven!
Chapter 7: School Daze
So that is how it came to be that on a cold Friday night in November, school was in session in Mrs. Johnson's fourth grade classroom at the Melvil Dewey Elementary School. The shades were drawn tight, and the room glowed warmly under the fluorescent lights. At the front of the room was the teacher, Mrs. Johnson, looking very professional in a bright red collarless two-piece suit. In the rows of desks were schoolgirls - rather large schoolgirls! - each wearing a pretty red and white plaid jumper over a white blouse with Peter Pan collar, red kneesox, and saddle shoes.
"Good morning, students," smiled Mrs. Johnson, pretending that the hour on the clock was AM and not PM. "Let's all rise and face the flag. Jennifer, will you lead us in the Pledge of Allegiance?"
Bob smiled broadly and skipped to the front of the room, his ponytail bobbing. Placing his right hand over his heart, he began. "I pwedge awegience to the fwag ... one nation, invisible, wif wiberty and juftif for all!"
Mrs. Johnson sat at her desk and smiled. "Thank you, Jennifer. I will now call the roll. Ashley Gordon?"
"Here," Johnny answered softly.
"Melissa Johnson?"
I smiled. It was the first time Becky had called me by my girl-name! "Here, Mrs. Johnson."
"Rosita Martinez?"
"Like, here!"
"Jennifer Phillips?"
"Here!" chirped Bob brightly.
"Marcia Roberts?" Marcia had even joined us, wrapping her chest with an elastic bandage to flatten it, tying her hair into little ponytails, and adopting Bob's first name as her last name.
"Stephanie Woods?"
"Here!"
We spent the entire evening, just as real school children would have: doing work sheets on phonics, practicing the week's spelling words, working arithmetic problems at the blackboard, reading in our Dick-and-Jane readers, and getting gold stars on especially good papers. In the back of the classroom, a video camera on a tripod whirred away, recording this wonderful evening so that we could all live it over and over again.
We were all in ecstasy, relishing an experience we never dreamed we could. Of course, we had all gone to school as children. But now, we were getting to go to school as LITTLE GIRLS! Getting to wear a sweet little schoolgirl uniform.
And this wasn't just pretend! It was a REAL classroom with REAL blackboards and REAL desks and a REAL flag, the walls covered with REAL school papers and artwork and REAL scholastic decorations. And a REAL teacher! Best of all, Becky had gone to great lengths to make herself seem larger than us, not that she was a small women to begin. The prominent shoulder pads in her jacket, the pumps with their five-inch heel, and the dark wig in an upswept bouffant style, all increased the illusion that she was much larger than us. In fact, when she called me to the front of the room to recite, I found that she was nearly a foot taller than I, and that I had to look up to see her face! It all combined to make me truly feel like a little girl, a truly magical feeling! I was so happy, and I wanted it to never end.
* * *
Well, that's how it all started, how I became a transgenerational crossdresser, and found happiness and acceptance by joining the KGC Feminine Kittens Club. Now, how about you? Wouldn't you like to get together with other folks who enjoy dressing as little girls, for some sweet wholesome fun?
Last Update: 12/28/2003
Web Author: Taffy@Cheerful.Com
Copyright ©;1998 by Taffy Cheerful - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
