An Interesting LookBy Cyndi Would you like to share Your First Time Story with us? It's easy! Submit your copy by e-mailing it to Cindy Martin here at TGF. Editing is done by Cynthia Smith. Hope to hear from YOU soon! The first time? Is it possible to consider the idea that I might have been wearing my mother's clothes in utero? For nine months I grew accustomed to dressing as a woman, and then one day I am separated from mom, my clothes, and all my accessories, causing a shock that I have yet to recover from. What else can explain the fact that when I'm wearing a skirt, sitting with my legs crossed, and a pair of heels on my feet, that I look down and say, "Yes, that's how it's should look." I have no memory of a "first time." I do remember the first time I remember. Which I remember because I was caught in the act of admiring myself in the mirror wearing Mom's powder blue half-slip at about the age of four or five. The mirror hung on the back of the door to my parents bedroom, which meant the door had to be shut for me to be using it. As I admired my image, a head peeked through the door at a much higher level than mine. I looked up and explicitly remember Mom smiling down at me. Did she think I looked cute? Strangely, that was the last thing I remember until I was in the car with her and we were about a quarter of a mile away from home. She was saying to me, "Those are my clothes," or in other words, "stay away and don't touch." Now something must have occurred in between that span of time when she stuck her head in the door and when we were in the car. But to this day it remains a mystery. With mom's drawers, and the clothes they contained, supposedly off limits I managed to find some nylon sheets that made a good substitute since they were made of the same material. But mysteriously they disappeared one day, and even though I searched the house for a year or so after, I could not find those sheets. I was convinced there was a family conspiracy to keep me and nylon separated Our three bedroom ranch style home in suburbia was just a front for the espionage that festered beneath the expensive shrubbery that surrounded it. Once upon returning from Sunday School I felt the urge to just touch something in Mom's drawer. My older brother spotted me and immediately reported this to Dad in my presence. But Dad had his own secrets, and only grimaced before turning back to cooking his French Toast My father had his own peculiar connection with lingerie and nylon. He would often bring my mother home gifts, usually slips, that he would hold up and they would admire. Dad wore nylon boxer shorts that I thought were boring. For one thing even the clean ones smelled like cigarettes. But he kept an interesting stash of nylon stockings in his drawer. I would play the innocent child and ask him, "What are these things doing in your drawer?" He answered, "I'm saving your mother's old nylons to make pillows." Pillows? The biggest mistake you can make is to underestimate the intelligence of your enemy. I never saw any nylon stuffed pillows. One night, it could have been three or four o'clock in the morning, I suddenly woke up and had this urge to peer out into the hallway. It was a bit spooky but I definitely felt something had disturbed my sleep and instructed me to look in the hallway. I was hidden in the darkness that surrounded me but the hallway was illuminated from a small nite-lite in the bathroom. In just a few seconds a figure appeared coming out of my parents bedroom dressed in some kind of brightly colored clothing. But it looked too big to be Mom. As the figure moved into the light, I could see it was Dad wearing a women's night gown. I thought, "Well, at least I'm not the only one." But this provided little relief, in fact, just the burden of another secret landed in my lap. My father avoided all discussions about sex. The subject caused him great discomfort. Once when he was taking a bath he called to me to bring him something. Before I entered the bathroom he had placed a wash cloth over his penis to hide it from view. Mind games? It didn't matter. Now I was really confused, Mom wouldn't let me near her clothes and dad wouldn't let me see his penis. I give up what am I? Over the next few years I became a criminal, stealing panties and beer at any opportunity. I had lots of criteria when it came to selecting panties. They had to be owned by someone young and attractive, nothing too old or cheap would do, and I wanted them clean and perfumed. Due to a severe drought of panties fitting these qualifications, I ended up pilfering the neighbors supply of beer. I had no criteria for beer, often guzzling it warm. I was very lucky to have neighbors who did not contact the police, either because they did not want to cause my parents the trouble, or they believed I was a good kid just going through a bad phase. It's not that I didn't want help, because I would have loved some counseling. But my parents idea of counseling took place in a hospital behind locked doors. My biggest break came when my one older brother married at a ridiculously young age. He and his wife would return home and stay at our house for the holidays. Now I had opportunity. There was a suitcase, filled with the clothes of a young and pretty woman in my bedroom. I had to sleep out on the couch, and they would constantly apologize for kicking me out of my bedroom. "No problem. Stay as long as you like," I replied. Because as soon as they would head out for the evening I would head back to my bedroom, lock the door, and open that suitcase. If there was a moment when I first glimpsed that feminine part of myself, it happened during those evenings. At first I was hesitant. But every night I went a little further until I was wearing a bra, panties, pantyhose, and a black bra-slip. I knew I should not be wearing a bra and bra-slip but I had to have them both. Then I suddenly got hit by the make-up tractor beam, pulling me into the bathroom to see what a little lip-stick might look like. Then it was eye-lash, eye-shadow, and eye-brow color, maybe a little rouge on my cheekbones. I restyled my hair a bit, brushing it down on to my forehead. And there it was, that experience of looking at myself in the mirror and seeing something gorgeous. I encountered an array of feelings in front of that mirror, everything from punishing self hatred caused by acne to the heights of supreme confidence after making a date with a girl I had stared at for the last six months. I was sixteen, and those feelings and memories slowly faded away. But the experience of seeing yourself in the bathroom mirror and having your heart break, that never fades. |