FOREWORD (59 page)

I feel strange feelings. Pain and pleasure overwhelm me. I am naughty for allowing myself to get into this position and they laugh in derision as I am raised and lowered. I watch in the mirror as the cock goes in and out. The black gays keep calling me a punk, sissy and fag. The one fucking me calls me a bitch and I feel his bird start shooting thick cream into my rectum. In the reflection I can see him fucking me and the white stuff is starting to dribble out of my ass down his cock to his pubic hair. There is a slushy sound as he wriggles against me. In a few minutes they raise the chair and the limp penis slides out of me.

During this fantasy I screw my pillow and when I feel ready to come I put Vaseline or spittle on my penis with a Baggie over it and pump back and forth until orgasm. It’s a nice randy diversion when you are afraid or unable to find the real thing.

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GEORGE

When I was about ten years old, during the war, when things were scarce, I only had a couple of pair of under shorts to wear. One time after my bath, I discovered they were all soiled. As the family was to go out for the evening, my mother told me to wear a pair of my sister’s panties, until she could wash the laundry the following day. As I recall, those pink panties really felt good and I enjoyed wearing them, although I didn’t admit it at the time to anyone but myself.

That experience was then forgotten for a number of years.

When my wife was in the hospital for a month, I was alone in our apartment. My wife had asked me to bring her some clean clothes to the hospital and do laundry for her. In handling her panties and other underthings and being alone, I remembered wearing my sister’s panties, so I just slipped on a pair of my wife’s panties after undressing completely. I finished doing the wash wearing only my wife’s panties and having them on gave me an erection. So I masturbated in them.

From then on, whenever I was sure I could be alone at home, I would put on a pair of my wife’s nylon panties and masturbate. I looked forward to the day when I could discuss this with my wife and longed for her to be able to share in my panties thing. My dream has come true.

A couple of years ago, I started to put a little extra weight around my stomach area, and when I would wear certain sweaters, this would show. On several occasions, my wife would jokingly say she was going to make me wear a panty girdle, if I didn’t hold my stomach in. One day when we had been standing all day, I had an ache in my back. My wife rubbed my back and said her back wasn’t too bad from the standing; the reason, she said, is because she wore a panty girdle, and it helped support her back. I asked her if she would mind or think me funny, if I were to wear one of her panty girdles to help my back. She said no, and immediately gave me one of her panty girdles to wear the following day. It Nancy Friday

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really helped my back and made me feel good. I also like the idea of my wife wearing an identical panty girdle at the same time.

One day we were out shopping and while walking through the lingerie department, she suggested we purchase a panty girdle for me. If hers had helped my back, she said I should wear one more often. About this same time, the unisex underpants came on the market and I purchased a couple of pair. They were more trim and comfortable when wearing the panty girdles. My wife objected to them, saying they looked too much like panties because they didn’t have a fly. I told her they didn’t and proceeded to slip into a pair of her panties in front of her to prove my point. She objected again and made me take her panties off immediately. We then lay in bed and discussed men wearing women’s clothes and women wearing men’s clothes. She thought all men wearing women’s clothes were homosexual. I reassured her this was the farthest thing from my mind and would never think of being homosexual. This put her mind at ease and the subject was dropped.

A couples of months later, after an hour or two of sex play and intercourse, we went into the bathroom and when she and I finished giving her a douche, I said I had forgot my underpants. Would she go to the bedroom and get them for me? To my delighted surprise, she brought back her red lace nylon panties she had taken off earlier in the evening, and handed them to me to put on. What a thrill after all the years of masturbating in her panties without her knowledge! Here I was, both of us masturbating me in a pair of panties.

Then one day I complained my legs were tired. We talked about support hose for tired legs, and I purchased a pair of men’s knee-length support hose. But they didn’t seem to help my legs above my knees. My wife suggested I try ladies’

support panty hose. We purchased a pair of the massage-type support panty hose. My wife showed me how to put them on.

But my nylon Jockey shorts bunched up under the panty hose, and were uncomfortable. The panty hose really helped Men In Love

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my legs, so next day, I tried a pair of panties under the panty hose, and have worn them this way ever since.

My wife and I love each other very much, our sex life is varied. We like oral sex, masturbation, regular intercourse, and a lot of foreplay. We take baths and showers together and have since we were first married. We have been married twenty years, have three children and are both forty-two years old. Two children are in high school and one in elementary school. We are happy, and the kids know I wear panty hose for my tired legs. My parents know I wear panty hose, and so do several other people. I don’t know where my transvestism will lead, but I would like someday for my wife to dress me in a bra, slip, panties, panty hose, body suit, blouse, skirt, wig, lipstick, eye shadow, and the works.

Research shows at least two different ways to understand the psychic pleasures of transvestism. Let’s start with the Freudian: The first time a little boy sees his sister naked, he feels a shock. There are people who have lost their penis! Did father do it to her? If the older man got angry at his son, would he do it to the boy, too? In fact, isn’t father somehow already angry because of what the boy feels about mother?

The transvestite does not necessarily want to be a girl.

What he does want is a specific defense against castration anxiety. The notion of dressing in women’s clothing presents itself as a solution. In essence, the unconscious message is

“Don’t worry, nobody really loses his penis. Even girls have one beneath their dress. Look, I’m wearing a skirt, and I still have mine ... so there’s no danger I will lose it.” The transvestite often reinforces this defense by inventing fantasies in which he is not father’s competitor, but the darling of his eye; dressing in a satin gown abets the scheme.

However, the desire to avoid masculine competition by becoming the male’s love object is not true only of transvestites. It is a dynamic that often applies to homosexuals, either with or without cross-dressing; heterosexual men, too, may Nancy Friday

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play with these ideas in their fantasies. In fact, fear of the oedipal father is taken as a universal by the Freudians; it is only the individual expression this anxiety takes that differs from man to man.

As I’ve said, the above is a fairly orthodox analysis of transvestite fantasies. You may prefer the ideas of psychotherapist Dr. Leah Schaefer, who has had extensive clinical experience with transvestites. Dr. Schaefer’s ideas do not so much contradict the Freudian reading as supplement them in a more everyday, commonsense context.

“When I meet a transvestite,” says Dr. Schaefer, “the first thing I ask about is the relationship to the father. Most often they turn out to have had violent, demanding, temperamental fathers. In time, these sons may also grow into hard-driving, hard-working, successful men. But there is a kind of plaintive note running through their lives: ‘Why does masculinity have to be so hard? Being a woman is so much easier.’ “ Society agrees. Women and children get off sinking ships first. If danger or difficulty arises, “Be a man,” we say.

“Swim through the ice and polar bears to get help.” Dr.

Schaefer reports that “transvestites seem to end up being worn out by this notion that masculine life is an unending endurance contest. Wearing women’s clothes is not so much expressive of a homosexual yen as of wanting a respite, a vacation from the tough, combative need to prove you are a man. I don’t think it is a coincidence that the desire to cross-dress usually hits most irresistibly when these men are overworked, under intense pressure to perform well in some testing area of life.”

Under stress, the alcoholic reaches for a drink. The transvestite puts on women’s clothes.

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DAYLE

I have just finished powdering my nose and touching up my eye makeup. Along with adjusting my Hanes panty hose and my non-cling slip, I am ready to chat.

I have just returned from Aurora Mall, where I bought some Elizabeth Arden nail polish and matching lipstick from the cosmetic center. The girl who waited on me also had gorgeous long, mesmerizing nails. We chatted about various nail polishes and agreed that Elizabeth Arden was by far the best.

We compared nail lengths and shapes, and agreed that the artificial nails in the new nail salons are very beautiful and cannot be belittled by any means.

My first stop this morning was the nail salon where a gorgeously dressed lady did my nails. They are beautiful, particularly now as I write. My next stop was Baker’s where I bought a beautiful pair of wood-heeled pumps. The shoes feel as if I were in another world, as I walked down the mall at 11:00 A.M. With my skirt whispering against my freshly shaven legs, with my long black wig trailing, my scintillating walk is indeed an experience to behold. What a joy it is. I’m fooling the world.

Yes, I am a transvestite. I enjoy nothing more than dressing to the hilt. My wife is now making me a new skirt and blouse. The material is fantastic.

When I am not in women’s clothes, I have fantasies of being in them. You could say that I live my fantasies.

HOWARD

All my life I’ve wondered how someone acquires a particular set of fantasies, especially ones as peculiar as mine.

As far back as I can remember (possibly as early as age three) I remember having to sleep with my older sister. She must have wanted a sister very badly because I invariably awoke in the morning with an article of her clothing on, usually rayon Nancy Friday

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panties or a slip (I couldn’t have thought of that myself, could I?). When her girl friends visited, they helped her put me in girls’ attire and took me strolling with them.

As a consequence, I suppose, I’ve always looked forward to any opportunity to wear women’s clothing. When I started dating, I always searched a girl friend’s bathroom for her stray lingerie when given the opportunity. With a pair of soiled panties over my head, I could come off into the toilet in ten or fifteen seconds. Fresh lingerie was for trying on
carefully
, so as not to leave evidence.

When I was twenty-one I started masturbating. We were living on a farm. Often I used to let a calf suck me off and when none were around, interrupted my chores as often as six to eight times a day to jack off into the hay. We had mares but I never quite figured out how to mount one safely. Thus my first piece turned out to be a milk cow that I had managed to corner.

Before my wife and I were married, I attempted to give her some hints as to my tastes, especially my affinity for everything lovely that covers a woman’s body. We were sexually active for about a year before the wedding and I would invariably put on an article of her underwear before or after intercourse. Without fail she would awaken to find me clothed in her nightgown and panties. She seemed surprised at first but also tolerant.

The longer we stayed married, the less understanding she became but that wasn’t her fault. I had graduated now and never passed up an excuse to don her stockings and garter belts as well as corsets, panties, bras, slips, nightgowns. My most blinding orgasms came about when we both had on stockings, garter belts and nightgowns.

With time my taste became more discriminating. Her clothes never really fit me all that well and her rather plain tastes didn’t coincide with my affinity for sexy, very frilly, prissy-looking items. At any rate it wasn’t long before I began assembling my own special wardrobe. I still buy a few things by mail order but rarely pass up a chance to buy in Men In Love

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person, usually on the flimsy pretext that it’s a gift. An overpowering thrill seizes me when I can discuss the acquisition of a new garment with a pretty salesgirl. Then I can hardly wait to get home and see how I look in it and feel it on my skin. There have been times when I couldn’t restrain myself and put on an item under my street clothes (when I could find the privacy) when I had to remain at work too long.

Before we were divorced, my wife became enraged and horrified on the several occasions I really “made myself up.” When I was sure that she was asleep and wouldn’t interrupt me, I would shave my face closely after bleaching the beard and carefully depilate my chest, arms and legs. After I had removed all of the rough skin, I applied full makeup, eyelashes, wig and painted my toe- and fingernails.

The following day I could look forward to parading around the house all day, changing at leisure into each one of my outfits before I was finished. By this time I had acquired skirts, dresses, shoes, accessories and even mastectomy breast forms to fill my brassieres. When I look in the mirror, I scarcely recognize the “other person” I have become. At other times, it becomes an effort to avoid collapsing or faint-ing with ecstasy because by now I am quaking and trembling all over.

I desperately want to make love (maybe it should be “be made love to” since I adore being seduced by women) while in this state. The woman who loves me would have to regard all this in an admiring, sympathetic way or else with mock severity. By the way, my wife never laughed at me when I was “made up.” I’m rather attractive as a “girl” so maybe she viewed me as a threat to femininity or heterosexuality (hers).

Yes, I’ve tried men (how else can you really be sure you’re not gay!) but am not interested. Nothing compares to an attractive woman.