Just occasionally, Becky, the expression of my heart is rewarded by one such as you. It is touching, beyond words, to have found an affinity with you and, moreover, instilled a little pride in what we do. However seriously I take my trans-womanhood, and I do, try as I might, I have long found it a challenge to ignore the sexual exhilaration of being feminine. My feelings are never far from the erotic nature of my trans-odyssey. A mere glance down at my raised hemline is enough to make my heart flutter in paroxysms of ecstasy. The transgression of our arousal will always be shameful to the envious. My fetishization of what women wear is something for which I make no apology. Fetishism, when it involves the objectification of objects, not people, is, after all, one of the oldest of religious practices known to humankind. When I put on a dress, I become aware of my own innate desire to be a woman. By separating my love of women from what they wear, I objectify only a woman’s clothing, not the woman. When wearing a dress, it is my hope for you that, like me, you experience its eloquence, poetry and sheer complexity of animated touch. May its allure reveal to you the sheer flimsiness of its protection and unconvincing nature of its apparent hindrance to extemporaneous sex. Only when wearing a dress, can embarkation for one’s trans-odyssey be said to be truly underway. The subsequent lifetime of hand-washing panties will be a small price to pay for the years of multi-orgasmic, panty-soaking ecstasy that comes with wearing a dress. Wearing a dress is perhaps the most pleasurable way to at least begin to identify as a woman. It is a quest for the brave. Take pride in it.
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