THE BEST NIGHT OF MY LIFE

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 JUST A BOY TRYING-ON MAKEUP.

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.

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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.

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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.

Yay!!!

AM I AN “UNDER DRESSER”?

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?

DON’T CALL THEM “MANTYHOSE”, PLEASE!

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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.

WHO CARES WHAT UNDERWEAR I HAVE ON?

So, today, I’m on Amazon, looking for new underwear. I really don’t have much I like. Yes, I have a dozen pairs of Players Men’s nylon boxers. Some briefs, too. Under Armour boxer briefs in their wonderfully “elasticene” material. They do their job. They feel great to the touch.

But…while searching on Amazon, I wanted to find underwear that I’d like to wear. Underwear that when I wore a pair, I’d always be aware of my underwear. It would not only feel good, but would make me feel good knowing I had them on. It’s kinda confusing, I understand. But…gimme a second.

What did I end up buying?

 

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As much as the word bothers me, what I bought are “panties.” As soon as I switched my search from Men’s Underwear to Women’s Panties, it’s like a whole different store opened up. You can see what I mean. Go to Amazon, and search the women’s underwear selection by typing in Nylon Panties. Beautiful, slick, silky fabrics. Wonderful cuts. (I prefer a fuller cut, but that’s just me.) There’s a panty (ick, that word!) for every taste.

My cart filled up with a three-pack of assorted colored nylon panties. I got a five-pack of satin panties. And a three-pack of what is called “sateen.” (I’m pretty sure that just means nylon and spandex.)

I checked out. The price seemed to be fairly inexpensive. $50 for 11 pairs of beautiful, colorful panties. One of the differences in men’s vs. women’s underwear is the female cut. It’s nicer than masculine cuts. For me. Since they’re cut for a woman, there won’t be extra fabric for a man’s…er…dick. The panties are flat in front and will hug my dick more than Under Armour gear ever could.

Sure the panties have lace around the waist and leg openings. Not a lot, but some. I’ll admit it. I like the bit of lace trim. I can feel it around my waist. I can feel the tickle of the leg lace when I pull them on. Then, with my UA nylon cargo pants on, it rubs against the shiny sateen of my underwear.

That’s what I mean. When I’m walking or even sitting, every movement of my legs can’t help but not only feel fantastic, but keep me aware that I’m wearing women’s underwear. It’s not a “guilty pleasure”. I don’t believe in guilty pleasures. I don’t feel guilty about anything I like. I like what I like and who cares if someone has a problem with it?

This isn’t the first time I’ve worn panties. Five years ago I had a pale blue pair of nylon panties on, and I was in Barnes and Noble. I remember I crouched down, and picked up a book and was leafing through it. It didn’t even occur to me that the lace waistband, and a good portion of my nylon covered ass would be poking out the back of the shorts I had on. (I always wear loose fitting clothes. Tight fitting nylon pants are a long gone, yet well remembered, fad.) But anyway…some ten year old kid saw my panties and quickly walked up to his two brothers and excitedly whispered something. I could tell what they were talking about, because not ten seconds later, all three boys walked by me, as I was still crouching in the same position. The oldest boy said, I swear, he said “I wonder if they sell girls’ underwear here.” The three stifled their laughter and I never saw them again. My point? Okay, those three brothers (I assume) now have a funny story about the man in “girls’ underwear” at B&N. I’ll never see them again. Why should I care? I don’t.

I had switched to exclusively men’s nylon boxers and briefs. But browsing Amazon today? I think I’ll switch things up some by wearing my new panties safely and proudly whenever I feel like feeling great. I’m secure enough in my masculinity to give in to my inner/outer feminine side.

And I’m also secure in the knowledge that there are plenty of beautiful, smart women who like their man in panties. Am I wrong?

A BULGE IS WORTH 1,000 WORDS

image   I’m sure I’m not the only one who posts on different places, regarding….sexual issues. And, always, if it’s a post asking for replies, possibly with a picture, guys always send a picture of their dick. Maybe I’m in the minority, but I don’t wanna see your Dick, thank you.

If I’m looking for hot, or dare I say EROTIC, pictures of guys, I want to see YOU. You show me a picture of a cute guy, or girl, naked, my first reaction is “eeew.” I’m no prude, of course. I just would rather see a picture of the guy in suggestive clothing. Or clothing I think looks hot on a guy. Maybe nylon? Hmmm…

If I see a guy wearing a nice tank style bathing suit, with a nice package, that does more for me than seeing a naked dick any day of the week. That’s not to say that pictures of dick or…whatever can’t be erotic. They can be. But I’ll always find a hint of dick sexier than the whole pic of dick. Put some clothes on people. Wear spandex, wear your parachute pants, wear lingerie.

I know it’s a cliché, but clichés exist because they’re primarily true. But my brain is capable of eroticizing a picture to your satisfaction and enjoyment, just fine. Thank you. But when it’s all laid out there for everyone to see, the ONLY thing left to the imagination is “I wonder what this person looks like.” Not sexy, people.

So shen answering any sexual type of post, think twice about snapping away at your dick, and think about looking through your everyday photos. Pick one of you in hot, sexy, tight-ish clothing. Trust me, you’ll get way more response.

FROTTAGE: AN UNBELIVABLY TRUE STORY


Here’s a story that, like every one of my posts, is true. I hope you believe me. If you doubt me, I guess that’s okay, too. I mean, there’s nothing I can do about it, and I hope that you’ll still at least like the story. But again; this is 100% true.

1984. I was wearing my black parachute pants, and I was hanging out with my girlfriend Karen, her friend Jennifer, and Jennifer’s boyfriend Ryan. Yes. I’ll admit it; I had a huge crush on Ryan. A very mixed up foursome. This night in particular, he was wearing Nike basketball pants that looked like they were satin, and a t-shirt tucked in. He had longish blond hair that just covered his ears. He was cool, also, because he had an actual earring in his left ear. One of those tough guy, pretty boys. I bet that if any guy challenged Ry to a fight, his tough image would crumble like the Berlin wall. But I thought that was charming, and kinda sexy.

The four of us had just seen the first “Police Academy” movie. I swear it. I didn’t pick the movie, and I seemed to be the only one who didn’t think it was a laugh riot. Anyway…it was Saturday night, and after the movie we took the bus back to Karen’s house. We went into her furnished basement and both of us started “making out” with our girlfriends. I was facing Ryan, and even though I was into making out with my girlfriend, I found myself opening my eyes and watching Ryan make out with Jennifer. He was way ahead of me that night and seemed to want to go farther. So we decided to open the sofa bed. Karen and I were both a bit nervous, as we really hadn’t gone much further than second base. And even then, I would run back to first nervously. But that night seemed to promise more, and the four of us layed down on the bed. From left to right it was Jennifer, Ryan, me, then Karen. So, Ryan and I had our backs to each other. No blankets or sheets to cover us up.

While I was making out with Karen, pretty heavily, I was constantly aware of Ryan right behind me making out with his girlfriend. Suddenly, I felt a quick, (too quick,) brush of his ass against mine. Because I was wearing my nylon parachutes, and he was wearing shiny, slick basketball pants, the quick contact was slippery. I’d never felt such a rush of pure adrenaline and excitement as my bulge began to grow in my pants. I knew that Karen had no idea why I seemed more excited, except that it was due to making out with her. Her tongue and mine were moving around in our lip lock.

While I was afraid to push things by rubbing my ass against him, I couldn’t stand the waiting any more, and went ahead. I brushed my ass against his. I actually did it. I was waiting for some kind of “Stop that! What, are you gay?”, or him just changing places with Jennifer. But nothing happened. My dick at this point was rock hard at the beautiful feeling of two silky fabrics rubbing against each other. And the thought of two boys’ asses!

Needless to say, the frottage continued, and while he seemed to be getting further with Jennifer, the contact with me became increasingly hotter. Now, our asses were always up against the other’s. It felt so intense, and I’ll never forget the feeling. Or, what was going through my mind. I thought, maybe Ry is like me. Maybe he likes guys, too. MAYBE…he likes ME! But at that moment, I was mainly thinking about our asses, slickly, smoothly touching, and moving around each other.

The makeout session was ended abruptly when Karen’s mom called downstairs, “Karen! I think it’s time the boys left! Good night, Ryan. Goodnight, Corey.” I sadly and frustratingly got up, straightened my cock, and buttoned up my shirt. I rolled the sleeves up just past my elbow and tucked it in. Ryan straightened himself out quickly, too.

We both left Karen’s house with a quick “‘night” to her mother. I walked out with Ryan. He was going to the train station, and I was walking home. The same direction. He and I joked and talked as we walked. I wasn’t going to bring up what was going on in my head during our time on the couch, and Ryan wasn’t talking either.

We got to the train station, and said our goodbyes. Cute Ryan walked away. I watched him go. I visually took in his satiny warm-up pants, his gray high-tops, his t-shirt and his cute now-mussed hair. Yes, I wished I had asked him to spend the night at my house. But I chickened out. We never mentioned that night again, and I lost touch a long time ago.

Yet, I’ll never forget his touch. Never.

GIRLS LIKE BOYS WHO LOOK LIKE GIRLS

imageAm I crazy? When I was in 8th grade, and started going out with girls; I recall that a lot of girls liked guys who were “fem”. No “emo” back then. My girlfriend at the time used to want to put makeup on me before we’d go out. Not just powder, but eyeliner, mascara, blush, the whole bit. I, of course, really liked it. I’d play it off as though I thought it was funny, but I know that really, I enjoyed looking “girlish.” And when I would be made up for a party or something, I had girls all over me. (Look, I’m talking about when I was 13 or thereabouts. It’s not bragging. Today, I have lost all the “pretty” I had.)

One night, I went to my GF’s house so her 17 year old sister could drive us to a party. I was a little apprehensive because I wasn’t really the “party” type. But, I walked over to her house one mile away, wearing purple (No kidding! Purple! Officially, it was a color called “Plum”.) parachute pants. Not ridiculously tight, but they did show off the package. My shirt was a gift from my GF that she got from The Oak Tree in the local mall. When I walked into her room as she was putting her makeup on, she looked at me and said, “You look cute. But take off your sunglasses and tuck in your shirt.” I did as she asked. Who am I to argue? I was only a tad self-conscious about how my dick looked, whether you could see the bulge or not. Since she didn’t mention it, I assumed it looked fine after I tucked in my shirt tails. [God. Bulges? The things we were concerned about when we were young. sunglasses at night. Cool. But now I’m NEVER concernedhow my package looks. Nope. Never.]img_4500

She walked over and turned the collar up (ugh), and unbuttoned one more button, making the top two undone. I wasn’t  really comfortable like that because she had given me a gold necklace that I thought was too short. So when I had two buttons undone, you could see the gold chain. I suppose that’s why she unbuttoned it, so I’d show off her jewelry gift.

(Plum-Colored Bugle Boy Parachute Pants. Exactly what I was wearing.)

Then, What had become routine began: she had me sit and she did my eyeliner and subtle other makeup touches. Again, I thought the red lipstick was too much, but she assured me that “no one can tell,” because she had blotted most of it off. And over the lipstick she added a ton (to me) of lipgloss! But she thought it was sexy. So, all done, we got her sister and left for the party. [Her older sister insisted on taking a picture of us together, like we were going to the damn prom! I still have it. I don’t look as queer as I remember, but my head is hanging way down in the Polaroid, as if I was afraid she’d say “Are you wearing makeup?” and totally humiliate me. But…she didn’t.]

At the party, I was amazed! Girls were flirting with me! It seemed like for the first time ever I was attractive to cute girls. In retrospect, I guess I fell into the “Pretty boy” category. I don’t see too many around now. There seems, to me, to be a percentage of girls who like(d) softer, prettier boys. The tough kids had their “chicks,” but the look of hatred mixed with jealousy over “that fag” who had all the girls’ attention was frightening. Making me more shy. The shyness making me more attractive.

At the end of the night, me a little drunk, her sister picks us up and Karen and I are alone in the backseat. Karen takes out a tissue or something and wipes off all my makeup before I walked in my front door. We kissed a little, the lipgloss now gone, and said our goodbyes.

God, I loved that party.