There are innumerable theories about why many men have a compulsive need to crossdress, to wear the clothes of women, to wear women’s lingerie and hose, to use waist cinchers, hip pads, and especially expensive artificial breasts (silicon masterpieces, preferably with subtly-erect nipples, held in cherished bras, chosen to be in perfect proportion to their bodies, bodies from which those breasts slowly take on their body’s own heat), to find ways to tuck away and hide their genitals, creating, at the place where their legs meet their bodies, convincing, little, slightly-rounded, pubic triangles under their panties, to do whatever they can to reshape their male contours into the contours one would expect of a woman, often to find ways to go out in public, to present themselves to the world as women.
They practice their voices. They become adept at makeup and hairstyles. They learn not to sway their hips artificially, but still to walk with a woman’s gait that somehow does make their skirt hems sway back and forth at their knees. It becomes second nature to them to hold their right hands slightly away from their bodies, letting them swing forward naturally with their left shoulders at each left step, while their left hands, with their fingernails long, manicured, and brightly polished, hold the straps of their shoulder bags. And delicate bracelets tinkle on their wrists.
They learn to stand erect, to smile easily. They find a fashion style in which they are comfortable, a style that is as personal and varied as that of all women. After some time, they learn to use shades of foundation and blush to highlight their cheekbones, to contour their faces using a skill that is realized by its imperceptibility. When their eyes blink, they expect the mascara on their lashes to bring attention to their fullness and length. Applying lipstick to their lips never stops being a sensuous delight. And brushing lint from their own breasts is forever felt as an honor.
They smooth their pleated skirts under themselves as they sit down. To adjust their earrings they cock their heads so their hair falls away. When they cross their legs, they are sure to keep the wrapping tight, even hooking their foot behind their ankles. At a street corner, while waiting for a light to change, they’ll shift all their weight on to one foot, letting the other foot be so light that its stocking-covered heel might even come out of its pump for a moment or two before letting it settle back in and proceeding on their way.
They are among us.
And I am among them.
I have my own theories why. But they are not important. What is important is this: I love it. I love it!
More Articles by The Author
- The Convenient Women: A Response to a Dismissive Transsexual
- Tell Your Girlfriend, But Don’t Tell Your Wife
- Reincarnation: A Romantic Notion
- My First Kiss As A Woman
- Theory and Practice
Latest posts by Cheryl Ann (Cassie) Sanders (see all)
- The Convenient Women: A Response to a Dismissive Transsexual - October 13, 2020
- Tell Your Girlfriend, But Don’t Tell Your Wife - July 9, 2020
- Reincarnation: A Romantic Notion - May 21, 2020
- My First Kiss As A Woman - May 20, 2020
- Theory and Practice - April 17, 2020