My Qualifications to Write About Crossdressing
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Making Scents Of Crossdressing free porn video
Making Scents of Crossdressing
By Ricky
I am a hi-tech person. I work and play with some of the
latest computers and electronic equipment, have stereo
speakers in every room of the house, and can bore you for
hours with torrents of jargon on just about any subject you
care to name. When I don my feminine attire I have a
fondness for synthetics, those modern wonders of the
laboratories of some multinational chemical giant. Who else
but those hi-tech wizards could turn a barrel of crude oil
into nylons and rayons, silky smooth and feminine, modern
and odorless? Be it the slight pressure of support hose on
my legs or the caress of a long slip on my thighs, I am in
love with those smooth molded and seamless undergarments.
But sometimes there arises a problem. Those silky smooth
bras just don't seem to have the hugging power needed to
support a pair of rather heavy inserts, and somehow it just
isn't feminine to be dragging up on your bra off your belly
all the time. To solve this dilemma I embarked on a search
for a bra that would support my purchased assets firmly and
in comfort. Since I use a pair of mastectomy inserts (aha,
hi-tech again) what better place to look than at mastectomy
bras. But alas they don't seem to be made in my abundant
size, so it was off the Tri-Ess Shopping Guide. I soon had
written letters to every supplier of feminine undergarments
from Lane Bryant to Omar the Tentmaker. Upon cleaning out
the old PO box (under the glare of an annoyed postmaster)
and carting away the resultant mass of circulars, catalogs
and come-ons I began the Search For The Perfect Bra.
As I spent many hours gazing at scantily clad women, a not
unpleasant pastime in itself, I happily compared band
thickness, color, lacy adornment, fabric, strap placement
and other factors and emerged with a scientific conclusion.
Lane Bryant had a half price sale on Playtex 18 hour bras
that looked pretty good, so they won hands down.
I soon received the goods and, lo and behold, it hugged
right, supported well and left me with my hands free to do
something besides adjust my bra. But it also did something
else. It smelled. The darn thing was made of real, honest
to goodness rubber; a heady, pungent odor that took me back
through the years. There I stood once again before my
mother's middle dresser drawer, happily extracting one of
her bras to take away for my own use while the family was
away for the day. It was a heavy duty, industrial strength
garment, providing the kind of the support needed by Carrie
Nation as she wielded her massive ax against a solid
mahogany bar in a den of iniquity. Were it to be made of
brass instead of the fruit of the rubber tree it would have
not been out of place adorning a robust Viking matron upon
the stage of the Metropolitan Opera; circled in uncountable
concentric rings of stitching running inexorably to the
pointed center of the cup. I always had to fight the urge
to paint a red circle in the center of that target, but
common sense won out every time.
There were other wonders in that drawer. Garter belts,
girdles and even corsets. They were much too large for me
at that time, but I wore them anyway. I would spend hours
on end enjoying the illicit thrill of those wonderful items
of apparel. It was some time later that I found the old
trunk in the attic with the outgrown clothes of my mother's
past and was able to both wear something closer to my size
and not have to worry about Mom missing something from her
drawer. I was able to sleep in a bra if I was careful to
hide it in the hamper before bedtime and then return to the
bedroom in the dark so as not to be caught. Then there was
the old green skirt in the attic, upon which I made my
first attempt at sewing. It became one of the world's worst
mini-skirts and it felt wonderful.
Thanks to those barons of industry and wizards of science
the world has changed and synthetics are the fabric of
choice for the ILGWU, and I must admit that they look and
feel more feminine than the cotton and rubber of my
mother's underwear drawer. But it's strange how hi-tech
just doesn't have the staying power, or the aroma, of good
old natural rubber. Seems I've come full circle.
Gert
- 07.10.2020
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