So, this past New Years Eve I was at my friend Shawn’s apartment. I was only underdressed. Yes, he knows all about me.

But there was something a little off. I couldn’t put my finger on what, but there was a strange kind of feeling. Then…I knew why.

“There’s something I want to tell you,” he said. “Sure, you can tell me anything.” I said.

”But…. it’s something I like that other people think is crazy, and I don’t want you to freak out.”

At this point my mind was going crazy with thoughts of what this cute boy wanted to tell me. Because of who I am, I naturally assumed it had to do with women’s clothes, or SOMETHING of that area. I was actually getting excited and impatient. I mean, I know what it’s like to have a secret, and I know what it’s like to want…no, need to tell someone. So, I tried to reassure him.

”Shawn, I hope you know you can tell me anything. I would never laugh at you, or stop being your friend. Whatever it is is something cool about you that you’re sharing with me. My. Glossy lips are sealed, Shawn baby.”

Shawn stood up. He was dressed in Nike track pants and a T-shirt. He reached down and told me to close my eyes. I did, and I didn’t cheat because I could tell how important to Shawn this was.

“You can open your eyes now, Cor.” I could hear the nervousness in his voice. I must admit, I wasn’t expecting what I saw. He was naked except for one thing. He had a diaper on. And a baby diaper at that. It had baby blocks on it. It was plastic, with four tapes securing it on my friend.

i couldn’t help it. I said “Wow. That’s….”

”Weird,” Shawn finished.

”I didn’t say that. Here. Sit down” Shawn slowly sat and the crackle of the diaper was pretty loud. Now, I’d been aware of this fetish, but Shawn didn’t know that. I moved over to Shawn and put his head in my lap, so he could see my face. Already, I could sense a bit of relief in his whole body.

”Shawn, baby,” I said. “I understand. You’re an adult baby. And you know what? I think you look cute as heck.” Shawn smiled for the first time in a while.

”You don’t think I’m a freak.” He asked quietly.

”Nope. I think you’re still my friend Shawn. And that you showed me your little side makes me feel so proud of my little Shawny.”

He smiled and blushed, trying to hide his head in my arms. I thought his embarrassment was really cute. Really, Shawn is younger than me and even though I think he’s gay, he’s a total cutie. This side of him makes him seem somehow even cuter to me.

He put on a onesie, which I snapped over his diaper,then he put on his track pants. Since he had been wearing this diaper all night, I was surprised at how puffy it made his butt look, and why didn’t I notice that?

Shawn and I spent the rest of the night with him lying down with his head in my lap. I was stroking and playing with his longish dirty brown hair. I could tell Shawn loved this.

I let him tell me what I thought he needed to tell someone. How he discovered he was an adult or teen baby and the first time he put a diaper on, how it just felt right.

I comforted him and tried to. Be the best friend I could be. I’m not too sure how this is going to change our relationship, if at all. But I’m fairly certain Shawn sees me in a different way since that night. He seems kind of shy around me since, and I can’t help feel he’s no longer 22, but he’s like 3. He’s just a kid. A kid I love. And since he only wets the diaper, I don’t even mind changing him which I could tell, he LOVED.

We all have certain bents or kinks. Shawn’s isn’t a usual one but it’s not UNusual, and doesn’t change the fact that he’s still Shawn and I still love him to death.


Remember? It’s impossible to forget! It was 1985, and we had PE every day. We only had to take it Freshman and Sophomore year. As I’ve said, I went to an all-boys prep school.

On the first day of Freshman year, we were given our PE kit: a pair of maroon shorts that were way too short. Made of stiff cotton, or something. A reversible shirt. One side maroon, one side gold. Our school colors, naturally.

Then, we were asked our waist size. At the time (sigh) I said “32.” The upper-class man looked through a box and pulled out a swimsuit. Since our school had an Olympic size pool, swimming would be part of our PE.

I had never seen the school’s swim suit. It was maroon, of course, and while not exactly a Speedo-like cut, it was pretty small. I think they called it a tank suit. It was 100% nylon. It had a liner, which was basically the same cut as the suit, but a little higher cut, and then the ‘shell’ or outer layer. It amounted to today what they might call a ‘square cut.’ (The picture above is exactly what we wore, except in black.)

If you’re not familiar with what a ‘drag suit’ looks like, just google it. As I said, it’s only a bit more generous than a Speedo, but not by much. And since it was made of all nylon, it was very clingy to boys’…parts.

I was instantly afraid of wearing that suit. In public. Of course, I loved the way it felt, being made of nylon. (Have I ever mentioned how much I like nylon?).  But outside of wearing panties secretly, I’d never worn anything like a tight swimsuit in front of other people, let alone a group of about 50 boys my age. (I never wore just panties in front of others, either.)

But I calmed myself by remembering that each part of gym class was four weeks, and heck; swimming class may not be coming up for a long time.

I was sort of correct, in that the part of PE where we were in the pool didn’t happe until about the third lesson of class.

Now, I tried the suit on as soon as I got home the day it was handed out. In my room, I got completely undressed and pulled the suit up. I tied the drawstring and tucked it in. It was tough concentrating on the awesome feeling of the nylon. I mean, it felt almost like I was wearing a thick pair of girly panties! But the thing I remember was staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, my nerves going crazy.

My 13 year-old boy’s ‘parts’ were clearly making a noticeable bulge. Oh my god! Was it too small? Which way should I position…it? No way! I simply could not wear this in public. (Ironically, I wore it to sleep in. A lot. After all, to a young boy with a nylon obsession, it felt totally amazing every second it was on my body.)

So, the very first day of our swimming period arrived. I went up before class, and told the coach “Sorry, coach. I can’t swim today. I forgot my suit.” Boy, was I clever. I’d just sit in the seats and read, or do homework. Alas, Not going to happen. The coach sighed and said “Don’t forget your suit tomorrow. But for today, here’s another suit. What…are you like a 30?” I corrected him on the size, and sighed as he handed me my worst nightmare. A brand new suit to ‘borrow’ for the day’s class.

At this point, all 50 boys were standing in a line next to the pool while attendance was being taken. So at least I had the locker room all to myself.

As slowly as I could, taking my time, I put on the suit. It was made by Dolfin, and even had a little dolphin logo. Ugh. But, I was wearing it. Granted, in an empty locker room. Nevervously, I opened the door to the pool.

50 boys all turned to see what the noise was. The door slammed, and there I was. I had it on. My ‘package’, my skinny legs, my hairless chest, all of it on public view for all to laugh at.

But, an odd thing happened. After the boys saw it was just a late-comer to class, (and no one popular), they all looked away and faced front. I walked by the long row of students, every last one wearing the identical swimsuit. Of course, not one boy said one word to me. No one even snickered. They were all probably feeling as uncomfortable and shy as I was.

After the coach finished taking attendance, he shouted “All right. Everyone in the pool.” All 50 boys jumped into the cool water.

Being the first day, we mostly played around in the pool. We may have done a few laps, and different swimming styles, but the main thing I remember is just having fun in the water.

Five minutes in the pool, and the swimsuit wasn’t an issue any longer. Ten minutes in, and I started to actually enjoy the feeling of the wet nylon suit. Loving nylon like I did, the sensation of wearing it in a pool was new and exciting.

Looking back, I sure did love wearing that beautiful nylon suit. And on the good-looking boys, I started to sneak peeks at them, and was amazed at how the suit looked on them. It turned into something that was very hot, and very exciting.

[No, I never got a boner wearing the suit. (In class, at least.) And I have no doubt that all the kids in my PE class could not care less about that experience now.]

But me? I’ll never forget it. And a few years ago I bought the same Dolfin suit on line, (but in a nice blue color), the same cut, 100% nylon, and I’ve worn it to many pools as an adult. As I’ve said, it’s not as revealing as a Speedo, and I never have gotten unwanted attention while wearing it, walking around, swimming, lounging by the pool.

I still love and adore my Dolfin, 100% nylon, tank suit.

But hey…what do you expect from someone who has “the nylon obsession?”


91E4EBE7-7284-41BA-9D3D-A09413396FF5The reason I put the title in quotes is because this is what I see if I google “guys wearing pantyhose.”

Even websites devoted to selling pantyhose for men always have some kind of post or blog with a title like this. It’s infuriating.

I guess it’s always been the case. Guys care about what others, namely girls, think about what guys choose to wear in public.

But… don’t guys get to a point where they simply don’t care what women, or anyone else, care about their clothing? Or for that matter, how they look in general.

Yesterday, I really was in a ‘pantyhose’ mood. I haven’t been wearing hose as much as I used to, but that doesn’t mean I love them any less. Readers of this blog know my love of pantyhose. I love everything about them. And, as I’ve said, no thigh-high stockings for me. I don’t like garter belts, and pantyhose go up over my ‘parts’ and I pull them up my waist. The compression feels wonderful, and obviously has a slimming effect on my stomach. Not that I need that, am I right?

Usually, the hose I wear is made up of around 85% nylon and 15% Lycra or spandex. For a while, I was plunking down $20 for a pair of nylons ‘made for men.’ I eventually realized that Hanes or L’eggs were exactly the same. I mean, exactly the same. No, they didn’t have the same packaging with a dude on the cover, but they felt and looked exactly the same. And, ‘women’s’ hose is available around the corner at any CVS, or other drug stores.

So, yesterday I put on my panties (Yes. Every day I wear them), then my pantyhose. Then… I made a decision I don’t usually make, though yesterday wasn’t the first time by any means.

What was the decision, you ask? The next thing I grabbed to put on was a black nylon pair of Nike shorts. Yup. That’s right. SHORTS. I put on a pair of white ankle socks and my Stan Smith sneakers (Ugh. I hate calling them ‘sneakers.’ I call them ‘gym shoes.’ But, people seem to call them sneakers, so I guess I will, too.)

Then, I went out. Gasp! In public! A guy wearing tan pantyhose, shaved smooth legs, and shorts! Oh my goodness! Everyone could see my nylon-covered legs! And… They felt great. There’s something about pantyhose and feeling the breeze on my legs that just tingles, and feels awesome. AND looks great.

I must admit though, that nervousness? Guess what. It wasn’t there at all! Sure, I looked surreptitiously at passing people’s expressions. And you know what happened? Not a goddamn thing. Not one person stared or gave a smirk. I find it hard to believe absolutely NO ONE noticed.

People have their own lives. They couldn’t care less what some dude is wearing on his legs. Personally, because I keep my legs smooth, I thought my legs looked great. They certainly felt great. I do think it’s important for any male pantyhose wearer to shave their legs. Otherwise, your legs in pantyhose look like Willie Nelson robbing a bank.

I guess what I’m trying to say…my point…is that any website that sells nylons to men has this article “Can Men Wear Legging?” (Naturally, they’re never going to call them ‘pantyhose.’)

So why do they feel they have to justify their product? Why should any man, straight, gay, married or single, give a toss what others think? Why can’t that article contain ‘If you’re a dude, and you want to wear pantyhose, go ahead and wear them. With whatever clothing you want. You want to wear them with a skirt? More power to you. Don’t worry too much about others’ opinions. Life is too short. You go ahead and wear whatever you want. You’re hurting absolutely NO ONE!”

I’ll tell you, that sure would be a welcome addition to ANY clothing website.

What I Looked Like As A Boy
Black Shiny Spandex Tights Look Great On Any Guy

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 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.) The necklace I wear is a flat wheat chain that is 2mm wide and 22 inches long.

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.

[Update: I think Ross Lynch is one of the cutest boys ever. I mean…EVER. Recently, he did an interview, and I’ll try to include a picture of his beautiful face. But it’s really what he was wearing. A gold necklace. It is the exact same width, length, and type of necklace I wear. SIGH.]




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.