Well…I Don’t Give a Fuck About Labels!

I haven’t posted in a bit, so I thought I’d let you know what’s up with me.

After a shitload of pondering and frustrating myself, and google searches, I’m worn out.

Maybe I’m Trans. But, maybe I’m Genderfluid, or… just a transvestite…or…


Too much for my brain!

I’ve decided this: I don’t need a label. That’s just something to tell a stranger if they ask.


Some days, I feel like wearing a skirt, I feel like wearing jeans. A baseball hat. (But, the one constant is panties. Everyday. And some makeup. Gloss and a bit of color for my lips. I mean, I’m not a Neanderthal)

I guess what I’m saying is wear whatever the fuck you want. Fuck labels.

Maybe somewhere there’s a label that fits how I feel. Wait…! I know that label! I know what it is! It’s…


Today, for example, I’m wearing my Adidas by Alexander Wang green satin track pants. (God, I love these!),

Stan Smith shoes, and a white untucked oxford shirt. Now…as I said I always do, I have panties on. (They’re the prettiest navy blue, and 100% NYLON!) A matching bra, and pantyhose. But, I guess if you were to look at me, maybe you’d see a guy. Maybe you’d talk to me and think Boy, this guy is kinda girly. That’s fine. I am girly. If you know anything about me, you’d know how much I was bullied for being a fem boy, starting when I transferred schools in 5th grade. Ugh. Boys. Am I right?

Though now, I don’t wear what I feel I have to. I wear what I want to.

What the hell am I? I don’t fucking care.
Now, am I right?


I found a couple old old vintage pics taken by my then-girl friend of me wearing parachute pants. They’re Polaroids from ’85. Cropped a little. But, I vividly remember trying on a new gray pair. Can I believe I once could fit into a size 31L? Well sure I can. Jeez, I have kept the original tag in a photo album all these years. The second small pic is another Polaroid she took of me in my ubiquitous black pair. Great crotch shot, huh? Eeeew. I guess she knew what it was she liked about my parachute pants.


IMG_7103Okay. Well, I’ve shared my big news. I am trans. I think. Wait…I know. Well….pretty sure I am.

It’s rare for me to write an entry so soon after the last. But, I can’t stop thinking about this thing. It’s like every waking moment I have this fantasy. This dream. And I’m sad and frustrated because I don’t think it’ll ever happen. But, here is what I wish could and would happen to me on any night.

I’m putting the finishing touches on my night’s outfit. Fixing my makeup so I look just right. Feminine, pretty, but not tarty. I’m very surprised and pleased with my choices.

There’s a soft knock on my door. I run to answer it, checking myself out one last time in the foyer mirror before opening the door. I know who it is, and I’m instantly shy, and very very nervous. It’s hard for me to make eye contact.

Who’s at the door? It’s my date. It’s a guy. A cute guy! He’s wearing maybe jeans, an oxford shirt, a nice dark blazer and nice black leather shoes. His hair is short and perfectly mussed, when in actuality he spent 30 minutes getting it to look like he didn’t touch it. He sees me looking at the floor and he quickly checks me out. A huge smile breaks out. Beautiful smile, with beautiful teeth. Just a hint of facial hair. Enough to look masculine but not too much so he looks like a Swedish Death Metal fan.

Of course, he hands me the requisite flowers. They’re tasteful and perfect. I invite him in.

“Hi, Jeffrey,” I say. Yeah, his name is Jeff in my dreams. (It’s a long story.)

“Wow,” he says, “You look fantastic.” I blush at the compliment. Even though I believe him, it’s hard for me to take compliments. He even leans in and gives me a quick, sweet kiss on the cheek. Once I get the flowers in water, I’m ready to go. Jeff has made himself comfortable on the couch. As soon as I walk into the room, he stands.

“Are you hungry, Corey?” he asks. He helps me put on my jacket. He smells wonderful. No matter how much I’d like him to kiss me passionately, it’s not going to happen. Tonight, I’m being a good girl.

Yes, Jeff knows about me. He knows who I am. He couldn’t care less about my “parts.” He loves women. And to him, and to me, that’s what I am. And to him? I’m a very pretty, nice, funny, smart and loving woman. That’s all he sees. I can tell from everything this boy does that HE feels lucky to take ME out on a date!

Honestly, and I say this with no hint of self pity: that’s never happened. I’ve never felt a person, male or female, taking me out…and HIM being the nervous one. HIM being the one subtly trying to impress me. But this night, Jeff is on his super-best behavior. He’s trying to woo me. His boyish attempts to hide his attraction and… just plain INTEREST in me is soooooo adorable.

Jeff does everything right. At dinner he looks into my eyes the entire time. He’s transfixed. He takes my hand across the table, and softly rubs his thumb up and down the back of my hand. He’s wonderful. We talk. A lot. He asks caring questions about me and growing up trans. I ask about what it was like being the star athlete in high school. He’s funny, self effacing yet utterly knows who he is.

And you know what else I dream about happening that night? Nothing. No sex. Nothing fantastical. Just a date. A date with a sexy, handsome, polite, and utterly charming guy. He takes me home after a long over-two-hour dinner and kisses me goodnight. A nice kiss. Not sleazy. He tells me he’ll call me very soon to set up the next date. I stare, watching him leave. I’ve got the stupidest, most wonderful smile.

Jeff leaves, and I enter my apartment. What a great night, I think as I slip off my heels. Then, my phone rings. I don’t immediately recognize the number but I answer anyway. It’s Jeff. He’s on speaker while he’s driving. He couldn’t wait the bullshit three days. He’s calling me five minutes after dropping me off. He asks if I’m busy tomorrow. He wants another date. (And naturally, No. No, I’m not busy.)

And that’s the end. I know, it’s pretty tame and a little boring. But in my whole life, I’ve never had a fantasy I’ve wanted more.

Ugh! Sigh.


I’m not entirely sure about sharing this. As I’m typing this on my iPad, it’s starting to hit me that I might lose a few readers. But…and I’m just thinking out loud here…it is my blog. And it is about ME. And, for some reason, I want to share this side of me.

And what is that side you ask? I started this blog to share my obsession with the fabric nylon. Of course, Parachute Pants play a huge part in that. And…again, if you don’t know what parachute pants are/were, go read the Wikipedia entry. Whoever wrote that entry sure did know what he was talking about! Yessireee. It almost could’ve been written by me! (Of course, it was written by me.)

I’ve also revealed my love of lingerie. Underdressing. Wearing nylon/silk/satin pretty lingerie makes me feel awesome. Especially pantyhose, which I wear every darn day. They feel so great. And, if you like wearing pantyhose or any nylon clothing, I highly suggest shaving your body. I’m lucky. I’ve never had much body hair. In gym class, I got teased more than once. Even as an adult, when I had to get dressed in front of some guy friends, one guy said “Dude, you have, like, no leg hair.” Fucking moron. But, that did take me back to how I felt when I was in high school and picked on. This guy was my “friend”, and he wasn’t really trying to humiliate me, but there were other guys I didn’t know too well there too, and I was embarrassed. Anyway…

I shave my legs, arms, and…of course..my face every other day. (I hate this trend of facial hair on every single man in the country!)

All right, I’m a bit of a sissy boy, and I may even be trans. I’m not sure. And I’ve stopped trying to label myself. What gender am I? Well, I know what’s between my legs. But I also know how I feel. It’s the same way I’ve felt as long as I can remember. Saying I was really a girl my whole life really makes things make sense. A lot. I mean, it totally makes my life make sense and fills in a lot of puzzle pieces. 

Now, instead of wasting time researching words, like cis-gender, transgender, gender fluid, etc. etc. etc., I really don’t care about words. I am concentrating instead on how I feel. Like, I’ll wear men’s shorts, with pantyhose, and feel totally amazing when I’m out. You know the kind of person who says mean things to me? NO ONE. That’s right. In all my dressing forays in public, not one person has said a word to me about my dress. No one cares. Well…yesterday I was in line at WALGREENS. My outfit was pantyhose, a short black skirt, a sleeveless t-shirt, a camisole underneath. I wore Stan Smith shoes with peds. Yup, the socks with the ball in back. And, I wore a pink baseball hat. I had makeup on. Not one person in line cared, except for a cop. He was staring. Actually, for all I know, he could’ve been attracted to me. But ultimately, he didn’t say anything.

As time goes on, I’ll get more and more adventurous in blurring the gender line. And, I do hope that I get some comments. Compliments. From cute boys. Heck, I’d even be willing to have boys try to ask me out. Those comments would be great! But I’m not too optimistic. Maybe. But as I said, I’ll get more and more confident to go out with as many “girl” items of clothing I can. 

And do you know who’ll comment? Not a damned one. Oh well.


Yeah, yeah…we all know. I’m a child of the 80s. But there are certain fashionimg_6506 trends that I wish were still around. For instance…

A cute teenage (or older) guy with a button-down oxford, open at the collar (only one or two buttons please) with a tasteful gold necklace? Yup. It’s sexy.

The people who say “Only fags and mafia guys wear them.” are wrong. Naturally, that’s an oversimplification about those who wear any kind of jewelry. Cute guys wear necklaces, too. And not just “hemp.” Please.

Though, generally speaking, there are a few rules.

1. No more than two buttons undone. Ever. Personally, I’m a one button guy. (Though for the above picture, I wanted to show how two buttons undone looks with my necklace.)


2. No chest hair. Sorry guys. Chest hair is gross. Unless it’s closely trimmed. And if you’re going to trim it, might as well shave it. I have always been lucky in that I’ve never had chest hair. It just never grew. Good for me.

3. The chain just has to be tasteful. No Justin Bieber bicycle chains. Try to stay away from rope chains, as well. Yellow gold looks the best. And buy a REAL GOLD chain. Not plated, hollow, or filled. A nice flat chain looks the best. And no bigger than 2.5 mm. (White gold is okay, but to me it just looks like silver.)

4. Finally: always…ALWAYS keep your chain under your shirt. It’s that smallest hint of gold around your next that is so sexy. Showing less is more. A little visible sparkle always makes me look twice at the wearer. And keep your gold necklace new-looking and sparkly. Always remove and clean it at the end of the day. And never wear it in the pool. Chlorine is terrible for gold.

And always remember the sexiest trait a guy can have is confidence. If you think your necklace looks good, chances are others will, too.

Maybe part of the attraction is that perhaps it DOES look a little feminine. It shows that you care about your appearance. Buying yourself a nice gold necklace is like giving yourself an elegant gift. I guess, if you think you look “macho” in your chain, nestled in your chest hair, as long as you’re confident, perhaps it will come across.

But the sight of a soft, pretty-ish guy, cute smile, nice clothes, with that sparkle around his neck when the light hits the necklace… now THAT’S hot.



I don’t really know what the attraction was. I was about 12, and had been wearing my sister’s panties and hose. But I had never tried making my face look like a girl’s. Yeah, a year later I would start dating the girl who liked putting makeup on me. But when I was 12, it wasn’t a “turn on.” Sure, it became one eventually. But not then. Anyway…

It was my mom’s makeup that I tried on. Maybe it’s the obvious choice, but lipstick was my first inclination. It had to be red, of course. I put it on, took it off, re-applied it. Back and forth until I finally liked the way it looked. A 12 year old boy with deep red lipstick. Naturally, I stared in the mirror, puckering my lips like the ladies I’d excitedly ogled in a pilfered Playboy.

The next item was rouge. Blush. I didn’t put it only on the apples of my cheek like I do today. (Oops! Did I just confess to wearing blush?) I put it all over my cheeks. I must’ve looked like I was either totally embarrassed, or perhaps I had Rosacia.

Mascara. That fascinates…fascinated me when I was 12. My friend Tommy was blessed with beautiful, long, feminine lashes. Everyone told him so. Maybe I wanted them, too. But for whatever reason I tried to use the wand to apply the dark goop to my lashes without poking my eyes. It’s really not as hard as it may seem to apply. (Actually, I just saw a tutorial that suggested using a business card behind your lashes when applying mascara, so any residual makeup gets on the card, not your eyelid. Brilliant!)

And with that, I was finished. (This was before lipgloss.) In my opinion, I looked pretty good. I had done a pretty good job. I looked pretty. That was where the excitement was. It wasn’t necessarily the steps it took, but the end result. I looked like a girl. Well…to my 12 year-old eyes. It was ultimately about how it made me feel, instead of how it made me look. I felt pretty. I kind of liked looking like a girl. It felt comfortable. It felt…right.

It didn’t start to be a daily thing until a couple years later. Even then, it was only concealer. That’s all. I still wear makeup everyday. Base. Bronzer. A little mascara, sometimes. Even though I think it’s subtle, it might look completely obvious to everyone. Hell, I don’t know how others see me. But regardless of how I look to others, I like the way it makes me feel.

Yesterday, I decided to make up my face completely. I mean, full on. But I didn’t want to look…tacky. I was just curious how good I would be at applying it. Since I’ve worn makeup, I get free samples and things from stores. Over the years I’ve amassed a large supply of various cosmetics. So, I set out yesterday to make myself look sexy, but not trashy. It might seem like a no-brainer  since I was, after all, wearing panties and hose already. So, after about 20 minutes, I was finished.

I had put it on. I was actually surprised at my skill. Of course, I took selfies. I took a lot of selfies. (You’re in luck! I’m going to add one of them below! Don’t you just FEEL lucky?!)

After I had removed all the makeup, I kept staring at those pictures. I reluctantly sent one to a straight friend who was at work, but through texting, he knew what I had been up to. He texted me right after I sent him a picture. His response? “Damn! Those lips! That’s hot.” I’m not making this up. (Ha! Get it! “Making this up”?) I texted back “I don’t know. Maybe I overdid it.” His reply came instantly. “No. I think it’s not too much or too little. It looks just right.” Wow. A married, straight friend.

Even today, over 24 hours after my “experiment”, I’m still checking out my pictures. I’ll never forget my friend Jimmy’s texted responses. It confirmed what I had hoped for after putting on all that makeup. I looked…pretty.



This is the actual, real picture of me from my makeup playing on 7/27/16.



“Underdressing” Today

I guess I’m not the normal CD guy. I actually prefer underdressing to complete feminization at home, when alone. The skirts and blouses (not to mention heels) are too much hassle. I’m not trying to pass. Of course, I wish I could pass. But I’m too realistic.

When underdressed, something clicks in my brain and I become what feels like a 16yo girl. It’s a fact that when wearing panties and pantyhose (never stockings. I enjoy the added compression around my waist) with a bra; it’s true that your lingerie is never going to get noticed. But my brain tells me to show my fem side to attractive guys.

Last week, while underdressed in downtown Chicago, I stopped in one of the ubiquitous nail salons. Since I had pantyhose on, I couldn’t get a pedicure, but I sat right down in the empty chair with my nail choice; a pretty, light, subtle pastel pink (always pink. Or baby blue.) The manicurist could not have been less interested. After the twenty minutes it took, when I was out on the sidewalk, every cute guy that was coming towards me made me unconsciously touch the front of my silky shirt, making my girly hands with painted nails obvious to anyone looking. I didn’t get any response other than a smile here and there. Honestly.


I have, twice now, gone out in the Loop when it’s very busy, wearing beige pantyhose. Not unusual, right?  Well, I wore them with white nylon board-shorts and Nike high tops. My entire calf and knee are sensuously encased in pantyhose. (My legs are shaved, so there’s no ugly hair that makes it look like Willy Nelson robbing a bank. And seriously, if you love pantyhose, shaving your legs does indeed increase the beautiful sensations.

But you know what reaction I got? None. None at all. If people, especially women, have noticed; they’ve either been too polite or not interested enough to say anything. It’s frustrating, yet at the same time I think “Who cares? That’s great that I’m being left alone!” The lake breeze on my nylon covered smooth legs is amazing. It’s the nicest, sexiest feeling I’ve ever had while underdressing. Even though I would’ve loved to have guys notice, and maybe even say something like “Hey, dude. Why are you wearing pantyhose?” But that’s the stuff TV fiction is made of. It doesn’t happen that way in the real world.

So take my advice: wear your pantyhose with shorts. Get a manicure with pink polish. Wear that bra with a light-colored shirt. I guarantee, no one will care. Not one. Except you.


The Best-Feeling Menswear Of All-Time

I know, I’ve made it perfectly clear about wearing nylon clothes. Well…actually any clothes that are slippery, silky, satin-y, and shiny. A lot of them now are made of polyester. That doesn’t matter one whit. 

My Nylon Obsession takes me to many places. Okay…websites. I’ve come across some pretty cool pants. But after trying out a ton of clothing that fulfills my obsession; I can honestly say that Under Armour gear is the best. 

Their T-shirts come in crew or v-neck, and they’re not cheap. Generally, a man’s undershirt will cost you about $20.00! But it’s totally worth it. Before you put it on, you’ll notice the fabric. It’s almost like liquid. If you fold them, as I do, it’s quite difficult to keep them that way. They’re so slippery they’ll slip right out of your hands. So, how do they feel when worn? Come on. I don’t even need to answer that. It is, undisputed, the sexiest, slickest fabric you can wear. If you wear just the t-shirt with a pair of jeans or whatever, it’s as close to public cross-dressing as a guy can get. 

Under Armour also makes a button-down long sleeve Oxford. It’s truly amazing. It feels awesome, especially when worn over an UA undershirt. And the fabric resists staining, so you can wear it again and again without it smelling bad or wrinkling. Then, when you do need to wash it; wash with cold water and like-colors. Then air dry it for about 20 minutes. Hang it up and let it completely dry. There. It’s all ready to go. 

They have chinos and (my personal favorite) slim-fitting tapered leg cargo pants. Now you’re entire body is covered in UA’s silky nylon-esque “gear.” You’ll feel like your cross-dressing in public. And, passing, might I add! 

I know Under Armour is extremely popular. That leads to my belief that a lot of men/boys are into wearing feminine clothing. They may not know it, but I think they’re mostly latent cross-dressers.

If you have a silk/satin/nylon obsession, as far as menswear is concerned? I defy you to prove this statement incorrect:
 There’s nothing better at feeding The Nylon Obsession.
[Under Armour isn’t paying me a dime to advertise their products. Frankly, my love for them comes from a more “feminine guy” perspective. I’m afraid UA would be slightly embarrassed by my attraction.]


Under dresser. That’s a term I just learned. What does it mean? Perhaps everyone reading this knows. But for those who don’t, it means people, guys, who like to wear women’s clothing under their big boy clothes. I guess that’s exactly what I am: an underdesser

See, I like being a guy. I like my guy parts. But I also like wearing sensuous fabrics next to my skin. I have absolutely no desire to “pass,” thank you very much.

So I have yet another label to add to my list. Let’s see…so far, we have Bi-Sexual, transvestite, occasional DL, transvestite, crossdresser, fetishist…and now? Underdresser.

Most guys underdress because they know they’ll never be able to pass. That assumes that all TVs want to pass. Gee. I don’t. In fact, a large part of my excitement comes from the fact that I’m wearing nylons and panties under my boy clothes. And when I’ve been “caught,” (and trust me; if you dress every day like me, you’re going to get caught at least once. Mostly by strangers. Like if you bend over and your panties show. That type of occurrence.) that’s been a huge turn on. While I don’t deliberately show, I don’t mind it if I do.

So, let me sum up. I do not want to be a girl. Sure, I like women’s clothing, specifically lingerie that’s nylon or silky. I also love nylons or pantyhose. I sometimes wear a cotton women’s blouse. The only noticeable difference being the buttons on the other side. Most times I wear colored nail polish on two fingers of my left hand. I wear makeup to conceal blemishes. Foundation, too. And if I’m going to a concert or something, I’ll wear eyeliner. Sometimes I’ll wear mascara during the day to bring out the blue of my eyes. Also, I like a little bit of lipgloss to moisturize my lips.

Wow! …what the hell AM I?




Lately, I’ve been doing something that I usually don’t do. And that, is wearing nylons underneath my pants every day. I mean, every day. Since starting this NYLON OBSESSION blog, and writing about my obsession, naturally makes me think of nylon clothing a lot more. And…that must mean a ton, seeing as how much I thought about it before I started blogging about it.

I would guess that some people accidentally come across this page. If you browse the writing, some people will think I’m a freak. Or think that I’m “obsessed.” Even though, isn’t that the who,e point of this particular blog?

Apologies. I digress.

Readers know that I have, and do, wear pantyhose. (And again, can we please refer to them as nylons for obvious reasons?) Though for the past three weeks, the carefully stowed pairs (there are about 10) of nylons have been calling me. In the morning before getting dressed, I hear them. They’re calling my name. “Ryan…come and feel us…put us on today…” So now it’s time to get dressed for the day. I take off my pink nylon basketball shorts. No underwear. Take off my t-shirt. After showering, of course, it’s time to choose the day’s clothing.

I start, as most do, with the underwear. I pull out the drawer and look. Players? ExOfficio? Under Armour? (UA is usually my first choice.) I can hear the nylons calling me. Okay. They win. So, I pick out a pastel blue pair of high-cut briefs. Yes, women’s panties. I pull the nylon/spandex panties up my legs, tickling my inner thigh with the cool, gentle fabric. I pull up, into place. My dick is already making itself visible in the tight fit of the spandex. As I’ve said: panties aren’t cut for a man’s dick. So the nylon and spandex are stretched with my semi-erect dick. I say “semi erect,” but that’s just for now. Remember, it’s about 9am.

Next stop is the drawer that contains nothing but nylons. Oh, all right. The drawer has other female lingerie but I’m not talking about that. …yet. Anyway, I pull out my favorite pair. 80% Nylon, 20% Spandex. I like hose that has a higher spandex percent usually, because they are tighter around my legs. But today, it’s the beige colored light support with reinforced toes. I gather them up carefully, after putting on my pantyhose gloves, (really? Yes! They truly do prevent snagging and runs!) and pull them up into place, gently tugging at the nylons to get the right placement. Once they’re on…words can’t describe the pure pleasure they bring me. Not just SEXUALLY, either. I feel comforted. They take me back to my pre-teen years when I first wore pantyhose.  It truly is a fantastic feeling.

Then, today, go my black jeans. They’re fitted, and have like 1% spandex so they’re coated. The denim is coated. It gives the black jeans a bit of a shine. Not to mention the feeling of the denim rubbing against the nylon and spandex of my pantyhose. My legs are tingling. Every step I take causes the friction to make my legs feel great, and slightly cool. Almost cold.

I finish with a black Oxford, untucked, with the top two buttons undone. After fixing my hair, and applying a smidgen of bronzer to my cheeks, nose, chin, and forehead, I’ll put on my 20″ David Yurman sterling-silver necklace, with the black onyx mini dogtag. It was a gift, and it’s beautiful. It still sparkles just like it did the first time I wore it. Of course, I take care and polish my small collection of jewelry. (I lost my gold chain I wore in my teens.)  Finally, socks and black leather shoes, and I’m ready to go.

See? This whole page I wrote is because I’m turned on. While writing this, I’m getting hard just thinking of wearing pantyhose today. Maybe I am a freak. But remember this: the vast majority of CDs are heterosexual men. Not that I feel I have to defend myself. But that’s the truth.

Okay! No more typing. I have to get dressed. And I can’t wait any longer.