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.
I AM JUST MYSELF.
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.
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?
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?
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.
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.
The fad started when I was in eighth grade, and continued through the entirety of Freshman year at the all-boys prep school I went to. It stopped abruptly a year or so later. This story, though, takes place at the fad’s peak.
So. Freshman year. I had, I think, six different pairs of parachute pants. I wore them Saturdays and Sundays, no matter what. During the week? At school? I slowed it down a bit, and wore them maybe twice a week. If I felt okay, I’d push it to three. Even though I had six or seven different pairs (One pair I had was red with black zippers that showed the black nylon underneath. They were my most…elaborate pair.) I had my favorites, or most-worn pairs. They were the black/black pair, and a blue pair with lighter blue zippers. Those two pairs were the foremost in my rotation. My sister used to tease me. “Nice ‘chutes, Ry.” One time I laughed because she said “Hey, nice clothes, Ryan. I’ve got an idea! Have you ever heard of Parachute Pants?” Yeah, she could be funny sometimes.
At that time, at that age, I knew I liked girls. My girlfriend and I (the makeup girlfriend) were still going out. But I knew that guys held a certain allure for me. I didn’t freak out, or get depressed or confused. It was like, Oh, okay. I like boys, too. No big deal, though I did keep this secret to myself, and one at-the-time girl who was a “friend.” Turns out she wasn’t keeping my secret amongst her friends. Found that out years later. Anyway…
There was a boy in my home room class, and my math class, named Kevin H. (I guess I shouldn’t tell his last name.) Well, he wore parachute pants every damn day! He wasn’t one of the break dancer guys who’d show off their skills in the hallways during lunch periods. No, I don’t think Kevin was a break dancer. He was a little more masculine than me, he even had the thin mustache that 13 year old boys can get if they’re of a certain nationality. But there was also something soft about him. He had beautiful olive skin and a stunning smile. Unfortunately, though we were both aware of each other, we never became friends, or even conversed with each other. Kevin wore his PPs fitted, like I did. And he had that body that could carry it off, too. Certainly, I know that while I got teased by preppy kids for wearing PPs, they liked Kevin, and left him alone. I can’t figure out why, except that Kevin was more popular than I.
In home room, he was seated across the room from me, so I couldn’t really talk with him at all. Since it was the second period of the day, I’d always check him out to see which of his ‘chutes he was wearing that day. My favorite of his was a white pair, with gray zippers that were placed in slightly different places than the usual Bugle Boys. He effin’ rocked those pants! (?) since they were tight, they totally showed off his (larger than mine) package.
I’ll never forget math class that year. I was seated one row away from him, in the last seats. I would bow my head and out of my peripheral vision I could see his nylon-covered package when he was seated. It always looked like he had an erection, but that wasn’t true. I knew because it always looked that way, and when he got called to do a problem at the blackboard, he wasn’t at all stereotypically hunched over to hide his boner. No, he was just blessed with a perfect bulge. When Kevin was at the front of the class, his back turned to the room, I would gaze at his perfect ass. It was gorgeous. Perfect. (Naturally, the fact that his lower body was covered with nylon was the obsession here.)
Good god! If I didn’t know I also liked guys, Kevin H. certainly proved to me and my raging hormones that like it or not: I liked guys. And girls. But if I had to say which sex I leaned towards or preferred; I would have to admit (as if you can’t tell by my posts) that I found myself fantasizing about boys rather than girls. And even all these years later, I still picture Kevin H in my head. The way his long, thin legs looked walking in parachute pants. The way his bulge looked when seated at his school desk. And his nylon clad legs when at the chalkboard. But even though he had a bigger collection of PPs than I did (at the time), the white, with gray zippers, are the pants I’ll never forget. It’s been many years, and I haven’t yet.
If you’re out there somewhere: Thank You, Kevin. You have no idea what you did for me. And more importantly, did to me.
I know that I liked silk, satin, nylon clothes as long as I can remember. I can only assume their allure for me then. Must be what it is now. Slightly different, though.
I was attracted to my big sister’s panties (I hate that word!) because, unlike my boring cotton jockey shorts (I hate “tighty-whiteys” even more!), her underwear was in different colors, and they had a shine to them. Most of them were slick to the touch. Silky. Yup, they were made of nylon. There was only so long I could stand and feel them through my 7 year-old fingers. I had to try them on. I remember vividly that she had a pastel blue pair, with lace around the top and leg openings, and were made of nylon. I stole them. I would hide them behind my bookcase. I would put them on any time I was alone. I knew they were made for girls. I don’t remember that being an issue. They looked “cute” on me. At the age of seven, I don’t remember having a fully formed sexual preference then. All I knew was that if I rubbed my dick when I had them on, it would eventually produce what I called then; the “Tingly Feeling.” Since I hadn’t started puberty, I didn’t produce semen. Which, actually was a plus because I could masturbate over and over without that post-orgasm feeling of wanting to stop. I’d have three or four orgasms before quitting. I mean, tomorrow’s another day, right?
Over the years, as I grew older, so did my collection of my sister’s silky underwear. Once, when I was all alone at home because the rest of the family went to a ball game I couldn’t care less about, I put on the original pair of panties and was content wearing just them, all by myself, around the house. I carefully went through my sisters drawers again, and came across a pair of her pantyhose (which I refer to now as “nylons”) and decided to try them on. I’d known what they were, it just wasn’t until that fateful day that I tried a pair on.
They felt fantastic! The slick and cool feel of my sister’s panties was now not only caressing my private parts, it seemed to encase my legs with the same feeling. That day, when my family was out, was the point at which I realized there were other undergarments made of the same awesome fabric. Not just underwear anymore. Eventually, when alone, I’d find myself wearing panties, and pantyhose all the time.
I didn’t want to become a girl. I didn’t want to have a sex change. I liked being a boy, as I like being a man now. I wasn’t confused at all. I just wanted to dress in my sister’s nylon underwear whenever I was alone. I eventually became worried my sister would catch on. If she did, I never knew it. But this resorted in me humiliatingly buying my own panties. I remember. It was at Zayre (not open anymore) and I quickly picked a pack of seven different color nylon panties. When I looked at them later, the nylon was very thin and cheap, and horrifyingly they had the days of the week on the front side. I’m not making this up!
I only wear nylon underwear now. And I can truthfully say to anyone, “It may not look like it, but this is made for men.”
If I only had had access to those “stores” when I was younger, I never would’ve worn my sister’s. (One site even specializes is nylons for men! http://www.glieberman.com PLEASE DON’T CALL THEM MANTYHOSE! They’re a bit more expensive than the average pair of L’eggs, but the product is totally amazing.)
[ I’m sorry. I don’t have any “My parents (or sister) caught me and punished me by making me wear girl clothes every day” stories. When you read those, always keep in mind that if the author claims that really happened to them? They’re lying their ass off.]
As I’m browsing blogs, I keep coming across people writing about parachute pants. Naturally, I want to read about them. But every time, I’m slammed with some other writer who thinks MC Hammer, and Justin Bieber (to name the only two) wear parachute pants. They don’t. They aren’t. What they’re wearing is called “Harem Pants.” It was not a fad. Now, Parachute Pants were a fad.
If you’re reading my blog, dollars to donuts says YOU know the difference.
Parachute Pants belong to a very specific, and short, time in the mid 80s when guys (mostly) wore fitted, high-waisted 100% nylon pants, which had exactly eight zippers, not including the fly. Generally, you only saw them on boys 10-18. They were made in all colors, and different styles, but the one thing Parachute Pants had in common was: They were made of 100% nylon! The harem pants most people mistakenly call PP are not made of nylon. Sure; they look balloon-like, and I assume people think they look like a parachute, hence the confusion.
But I’m right. If you, like me, were in your pre-teen, or a teenager; you either know somebody who wore them, or you wore them. OR, you and your buddies all had a pair. …or two. …or more.
So please stop calling ridiculous looking “harem pants”, Parachute Pants.
During warmer months, look around. I notice that tons and tons of guys wear shiny nylon shorts, jerseys, shirts, etc. Okay, they’re probably mainly made of polyester, not nylon, but they feel and look mostly the same.
It’s my assertion that these guys are completely aware of “the nylon obsession,” and they share a part of that, too. Think about it: These guys went to a store, picked them out, maybe tried them on, and then bought them. They rubbed the fabric of the shorts, in the store, between their fingers, and they absolutely had to have enjoyed the feeling. Part of their brain must have responded to the awesome tactile experience silky nylon shorts give. I firmly believe that the thought DID cross their minds: I like the way these feel. I think they’d be comfortable, and probably feel good to wear, too. Otherwise, they would have bought boring cotton shorts. And notice how many guys are either wearing boxers, or no underwear at all, with their nylon shorts. They have to like, or at the least, be aware of the feeling of the smooth fabric on their crotch. (I hate that word, too!)
If you know guys who seem to always wear silky nylon shorts, jerseys, or basketball pants, it is my belief that those guys have The Nylon Obsession. If they wear nylon shorts or pants, or even Under Armour gear, they must be wearing them because either they like the way they look in the nylon-esque clothing, or they like the way it feels against their skin. I’d bet anyone that if you could look through their underwear drawer, you’d find more than a couple pairs of silky briefs, or satin boxers. Why? Because now that they’ve started their own fetish for nylon, they want that feeling on everypart of their body. It must be a conscious choice on the part of the individual to seek out nylon clothes. When a guy has more than one pair of nylon pants (i.e. Under Armour, wind pants, etc.), odds are he has his very own case of Nylon Obsession.
So, it is my firm belief that boys/men are absolutely aware of the silky, slick feeling of 100% Nylon, and truly like the way it feels. They like it A LOT.
First off, I’m a guy. I’m 39. I’m straight…….ish. But Of course, everyone is welcome here. Except haters.
When I was ten, I helped out at the neighborhood video store.
One day, this guy walks in wearing the first pair of heavy nylon shorts I’d ever seen. They were red. I couldn’t figure out what was so cool about this dude’s shorts. He was exactly my age, and had nice tan legs. His shorts, to me at the time, looked like they were made out of plastic. They were very stiff and the guy had to keep flattening them down after crouching to look at the lower shelfs. I was completely transfixed.
Yes, I looked like a dork staring at this guy. But he came up and actually introduced himself to me. “Hi. My name’s Christian.” We talked a bit. He was, in fact, my age. He had just moved here, etc. I kept sneaking looks at his shorts. Eventually he said goodbye and left. I brought up the subject to my coworkers. “Hey, did you see that guy?” No one seemed to have noticed. Mark said, “The guy who you were talking to?” Well, I really didn’t want everyone to think I was gay, so I laughed and related our boring conversation. After, I casually said, “Did you see his shorts?! They were, like, made out of plastic or something.” By this point, my friends were starting to get annoyed that I was still talking about this guy’s shorts. At this point I didn’t yet know what NYLON was. At this point, my obsession began. But, not too far away, would come the world’s most amazing fashion fad.