I Want To Know What Influenced You To Crossdress
I have no idea what caused me to do it that first time. It was the tail-end of the seventies, I was 18 years of age, and I had just left home to go to university. While exploring the town, I had noticed the specialist lingerie shop, with its displays of bras and panties and, to my fascination, the foundation garments. I guess like a lot of teenage boys in those times, the sights of such items in shop windows, not to mention pictures of young women wearing corsetry in shopping catalogues, were a real turn-on. Anyway, this lunchtime one of the mannequins in the window was wearing this fearsome combination of a long leg high waist panty girdle and a long-line bra. As I said before, I do not know what came over me, as I had never experienced any desire to cross-dress, but the question suddenly popped into my head – “what does it feel like to wear that?” And at that moment I just had to know! My mouth went dry, and my heart started pounding at the very idea, and I slowly started walking to the door. It was the weirdest sensation – it was like I was watching myself from a distance. I kept saying over and over in my head – “you’re not really going to do this thing?” – but in my gut I knew that this was precisely what I was going to do.
I walked in and attracted a few glances, due no doubt to my gender and age. I dare say they had the occasional male visitor, but I’d wager very few in their late teens. I went to the oldest assistant and, in a quavery voice, told her I’d like to buy myself a bra and girdle like the one in the window. I could see she was about to treat this request as a joke and ask me to leave, but obviously something about my demeanour told her that I was serious. She led me over to the window and I pointed out the ones I was talking about. “You really want to buy these items? For yourself?” I swallowed and nodded. “Do you know your sizes?” was the next question, which I clearly had no idea about. So she went over to the changing rooms, ensured that no other customers were around, and measured me. I guess she wasn’t entirely convinced yet, probably thinking I wanted this stuff for a fancy-dress party or something of that type. So she asked me if I wanted them to be loose-fitting. “No, “ I said decisively, “I want them to fit me properly.” She pulled a face that pretty much said “well, it’s your funeral” and left, returning a few minutes later with the items – girdle, bra and seamed stockings. She asked if I needed help, and I nodded – by this stage I couldn’t trust myself to speak.
So I took off my shoe socks, jeans, shirt and pullover and, heart racing nineteen to the dozen, I stepped into the girdle. “If you put it on, you’ll have to pay for it,” she said, giving me a last chance to bail out, “are you really sure you want to do this?” I started pulling the girdle on – I can remember it as if it were yesterday – and my eyes widened as I felt it start to grip my thighs and backside. I could see her suppressing a smile as I got it on. Then I pulled in my stomach, fastened the few hook-and-eye clasps on the left hand side and pulled up the zip. I sat down awkwardly, and she helped me roll on the stockings, showing me how they attached to the suspenders in the inside of the girdle legs. “It’ll be better if you put the stockings on first next time and then fasten them to the girdle before you have it all the way on.” Then I put my arms out and she helped me into the bra, fastening up the six clasps and pulling the cuff down to overlap the girdle waist. “I’ll leave you to get dressed now, and I’ll see you at the till.”
Thank God she wasn’t there to see the spectacle of me trying to put my clothes back on over all this restrictive underwear. Eventually I got dressed, took a deep breath, pulled back the curtain and walked over to the till. All eyes were on me –one customer was giving me disapproving glares, but everyone else in the shop was trying not to smirk (and generally failing). I got an extra couple of pairs of stockings, paid for the lot, and hurried (as best I could) out of the shop. I stopped at the sight of the display in the window. I guess I was now back in control of myself, and I just could not get my head around the fact that I was actually wearing that stuff! I thought back to the sight of myself in the full-length mirror – a solid mass of bright white corsetry from chest to mid-thigh, all heavy panels, stitching, hooks and zips – and I swear I nearly passed out. I was so ashamed and embarrassed. Then I started to walk home with my firm foundations holding me in – bra straps pressing into my shoulder, bra cuff and girdle holding in my stomach, and the girdle gripping my backside and thighs. I had wanted to know what it felt like – well by God I had found out. I hurried to my afternoon class and spent a long, long afternoon in the lab. As soon as I got home, I hauled off my new corsetry and threw it across the room.
The next morning, as I was about to get dressed, I looked across at it all lying where I’d left it the night before. I couldn’t get a refund – that had been made perfectly clear – so what was I to do? Throw it out? What if I got that crazy urge again? I’d just end up replacing it. My parents had brought me up to abhor any wastage, and it sat ill with me to just throw it out. And, I reasoned, it was just underwear – no-one would ever know unless I was really stupid. So I took a deep breath, and carefully put it on again. Under a heavy pullover and jeans, you could hardly tell – that evening I got out my sewing kit and sewed up the excess material at the bra cups as that was the only real sign.
It was, I can tell you, hell trying to get used to wearing corsetry. I hated every second – I got no pleasure whatsoever – and when you’re wearing a firm girdle and bra combination, there’s no way you’re going to forget what you’ve got on. Not for one second. But I persevered, and eventually it just became the norm for me to wear women’s foundation garments. And all because of that one crazy moment of lack of self-control at the lingerie shop.
I walked in and attracted a few glances, due no doubt to my gender and age. I dare say they had the occasional male visitor, but I’d wager very few in their late teens. I went to the oldest assistant and, in a quavery voice, told her I’d like to buy myself a bra and girdle like the one in the window. I could see she was about to treat this request as a joke and ask me to leave, but obviously something about my demeanour told her that I was serious. She led me over to the window and I pointed out the ones I was talking about. “You really want to buy these items? For yourself?” I swallowed and nodded. “Do you know your sizes?” was the next question, which I clearly had no idea about. So she went over to the changing rooms, ensured that no other customers were around, and measured me. I guess she wasn’t entirely convinced yet, probably thinking I wanted this stuff for a fancy-dress party or something of that type. So she asked me if I wanted them to be loose-fitting. “No, “ I said decisively, “I want them to fit me properly.” She pulled a face that pretty much said “well, it’s your funeral” and left, returning a few minutes later with the items – girdle, bra and seamed stockings. She asked if I needed help, and I nodded – by this stage I couldn’t trust myself to speak.
So I took off my shoe socks, jeans, shirt and pullover and, heart racing nineteen to the dozen, I stepped into the girdle. “If you put it on, you’ll have to pay for it,” she said, giving me a last chance to bail out, “are you really sure you want to do this?” I started pulling the girdle on – I can remember it as if it were yesterday – and my eyes widened as I felt it start to grip my thighs and backside. I could see her suppressing a smile as I got it on. Then I pulled in my stomach, fastened the few hook-and-eye clasps on the left hand side and pulled up the zip. I sat down awkwardly, and she helped me roll on the stockings, showing me how they attached to the suspenders in the inside of the girdle legs. “It’ll be better if you put the stockings on first next time and then fasten them to the girdle before you have it all the way on.” Then I put my arms out and she helped me into the bra, fastening up the six clasps and pulling the cuff down to overlap the girdle waist. “I’ll leave you to get dressed now, and I’ll see you at the till.”
Thank God she wasn’t there to see the spectacle of me trying to put my clothes back on over all this restrictive underwear. Eventually I got dressed, took a deep breath, pulled back the curtain and walked over to the till. All eyes were on me –one customer was giving me disapproving glares, but everyone else in the shop was trying not to smirk (and generally failing). I got an extra couple of pairs of stockings, paid for the lot, and hurried (as best I could) out of the shop. I stopped at the sight of the display in the window. I guess I was now back in control of myself, and I just could not get my head around the fact that I was actually wearing that stuff! I thought back to the sight of myself in the full-length mirror – a solid mass of bright white corsetry from chest to mid-thigh, all heavy panels, stitching, hooks and zips – and I swear I nearly passed out. I was so ashamed and embarrassed. Then I started to walk home with my firm foundations holding me in – bra straps pressing into my shoulder, bra cuff and girdle holding in my stomach, and the girdle gripping my backside and thighs. I had wanted to know what it felt like – well by God I had found out. I hurried to my afternoon class and spent a long, long afternoon in the lab. As soon as I got home, I hauled off my new corsetry and threw it across the room.
The next morning, as I was about to get dressed, I looked across at it all lying where I’d left it the night before. I couldn’t get a refund – that had been made perfectly clear – so what was I to do? Throw it out? What if I got that crazy urge again? I’d just end up replacing it. My parents had brought me up to abhor any wastage, and it sat ill with me to just throw it out. And, I reasoned, it was just underwear – no-one would ever know unless I was really stupid. So I took a deep breath, and carefully put it on again. Under a heavy pullover and jeans, you could hardly tell – that evening I got out my sewing kit and sewed up the excess material at the bra cups as that was the only real sign.
It was, I can tell you, hell trying to get used to wearing corsetry. I hated every second – I got no pleasure whatsoever – and when you’re wearing a firm girdle and bra combination, there’s no way you’re going to forget what you’ve got on. Not for one second. But I persevered, and eventually it just became the norm for me to wear women’s foundation garments. And all because of that one crazy moment of lack of self-control at the lingerie shop.
